Of Flame And Blade
by Eve Hawke
Summary: An alternate telling of the story "Shadows and Feathers" by Jaden Anderson, but from the POV of Alistair and eventually Amell, written by myself, with heavy beta'ing by Jaden Anderson. We begin in Ostagar and travel eventually to Kirkwall, where Alistair has abandoned his commitment to the Wardens, and meets a Hawke and an Amell. This story is on hiatus, but it will return.
1. Chapter 1: Alistair

Title: **Of Flame and Blade**

Characters: Alistair, Hawke, Anders, Amell, and the rest of Kirkwall's merry band.

Summary: The story of **_Shadows and Feathers _by Jaden** **Anderson**, but from the POV of Alistair and eventually Amell, and written by myself, with heavy beta'ing by Jaden Anderson. You could say this is a fanfic of a fanfic. ;-)

A/N: _I adore Jaden's story of Marian Hawke - if you have not read Shadows and Feathers, I highly suggest you check it out. I was so enthralled with the idea of Alistair traveling to Kirkwall after the blight and getting recruited into Hawke's band of misfits. Throughout my reading of her work, I kept thinking of the ways Alistair would react to things, or of how situations would look from his side. Once again, that lovable Warden began whispering in my ear, and after I stopped shivering and realized he was serious, I decided to write it._

_Since this is an alternate viewpoint of the world that Jaden has created, the stories are meant to compliment one another. I suppose you could read one and not the other, but I do hope you check them both out. Super thanks to Jaden Anderson for letting me play with her characters in her world. :-D Enjoy._

* * *

**9:30 Dragon Age - Ostagar**

**~ Alistair ~**

Cousland came snarling into camp, fists flexing tight then loosening, fancy armor streaked with a thin film of dust. Duncan strode close behind, an ironic little smile twisting his mouth. From the spot where Alistair sat sharpening his sword, he looked up at just the wrong moment, managing to catch the eye of their newest Grey Warden recruit.

"Eyes to yourself," Cousland snapped at him. Alistair held up his palms in mock apology, scowling at the back of the man's armor as the noble ass ducked into his tent. He'd known Cousland for all of three days and already hated him. What was to like, really? He was the epitome of everything Alistair had come to loathe over the years - a haughty, self-important son-of-a-bitch with a god complex. Growing up in the Chantry, Alistair had suffered through more than his fair share of run-ins with people who thought themselves better, more special, more _worthy_ of respect than he was.

Mostly, he didn't let it bother him. People were idiots. He generally tried to be nice, but on the rare occasion that someone worked his ire up, he tended to respond with humor, rather than letting anger get the best of him. But something about Cousland had rubbed him the wrong way from the very beginning...

With a quick shake of his head, he banished these thoughts. If he hated the jerk, why waste brain power on him?

"Are you ready for the Wilds?" Duncan asked, lowering himself to the seat beside Alistair's.

"Think so," Alistair said, trying to put a bit of cheer into his tone. "Nothing like taking potential recruits out for their first kills, right?"

"You must be back before nightfall," Duncan stated, his voice deepening. "Find what they need and quickly. Following the Joining, we'll send Peter off with any other Wardens that do not survive. I'm afraid there will be more death before the night is out. The pyres can be lit together."

"You don't think they'll all make it?" Alistair said, his voice low as his gaze swept to the fire where Daveth sat dicing with Jory and Carver. The knight shifted in his seat, his impatient sighs loud enough for all to hear. For days he'd been making noise about getting on with it, but they'd been waiting for Duncan to return with his newest recruit. Daveth had come to them by way of Denerim - a pickpocket by trade. Alistair had doubts about that one, though Jory seemed like maybe he'd... He shrugged to himself. There really wasn't any way of knowing. The Joining took just as many as it gave - Alistair only hoped they'd get to keep _some_.

As for Carver - the lad had shown up only that morning, practically tripping over Duncan's heels, slathering like an eager mabari. Seemed like a good chap, wanting to prove himself. They hadn't had much of a chance to talk, but Alistair found himself hoping the boy would survive, particularly over certain others.

"Maker knows," Duncan said. "With luck, we'll only lose one. Two is far more likely, it's just odds."

Alistair's eyes raked over his mentor's face. So many years of service, years spent watching so many die the moment the chalice rim touched their lips. He couldn't even imagine it. The idea of choosing someone, hand-picking them from a pool of hopefuls, just to watch them drown in the blood.. it made him shiver. He only hoped he never found himself in Duncan's position - there was no appeal to be found in leadership of any kind. Especially after meeting the noble yuppie Cousland.

"What in the void is keeping us here?" A crass voice dragged Alistair's thoughts back to the present. He tore his gaze from Duncan to find Aedan striding over to the fire, his hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword. "You _claim_ that we need to go into the Wilds - shouldn't we do that then, _before_ the darkspawn arrive?" The fingers constricted, thrumming over the silvered handle of his blade, his opaque eyes pinched and cold.

"Duncan and I were just talking about that," Alistair said easily, rising to his feet and sliding the sword into the scabbard on his back. "I take it you're ready then?"

"Are you always such an idiot, or am I just lucky?" Aedan's dark ire was marvelous to behold. He stalked away, leaving Alistair to toss a dirty look at his back.

"I see you've made a new friend," Duncan joked in a dry tone. "Have patience. He did, after all, just lose his entire family."

"You're breaking my heart. No, really. There's a tear in my eye..." Alistair lifted a hand to his face, choking back a dramatic sob. "Any minute I'll... cry..."

Duncan shot him a sidelong look, unimpressed with his levity. "Get going, Warden."

Alistair whistled at the trio by the fire. "Grab your weapons, ladies! Let's go!"

A few minutes later they were striding past the gate guard, who'd unlocked the doorway in the crude fence to admit them to the Korcari Wilds. With the brush beneath his feet, Alistair spun his senses out like a spider web, scouring the thick folds of the woods for nearby darkspawn. _There_, not a mile away, a small contingent plucked at his invisible threads. Scouts, most likely. As for the main body of the horde... they weren't anywhere near their proximity - a relief, yet perturbing that he could still feel the dark, throbbing mass. It was at least ten miles off. For tonight they were safe, or as safe as they could be in the Wilds, but tomorrow... that was a different story entirely.

"Follow me," Cousland said, his voice deep and commanding. Ser Jory scuttled after him -_ he would_, Alistair thought, somewhat disgusted. _Highever's elite - probably thrilled to lick the head ass's boots. _He glanced at Daveth, who quirked a brow at Carver, jerking his chin after their two gently-born companions.

"After you," Daveth said with a mock bow, a frilly twist of his hand turning the already silly motion foppish.

Carver grinned. It brought light to his youthful face - Alistair wondered just how old the lad was. Ebony hair, as dark as a raven's wing, shone in the bands of sunlight that managed to break through the thick forest canopy. Eyes as bright as the sky scoped the group, his mouth tugging into a full-blown laugh. He looked as if he couldn't be more than eighteen, though he was solidly built, and certainly seemed like he meant business with a sword.

"Why thank you, good ser," Carver snickered. "Hold on, I think I my noble ass needs wiping."

"No! A handful of leaves, perhaps?"

"Alright, enough," Alistair said, but he couldn't quite hide the appreciation in his eyes. "Let's go kill something."

The task went well enough and Alistair made use of the time to analyze the myriad of fighters Duncan had found for their ranks. Ser Jory appeared to enjoy the sound of his own voice, complaining about _everything_, from the swamplands to the ambiguous Joining awaiting them. As often as Jory groused, Cousland snarked, his true colors revealing themselves quite quickly - a self-serving bastard with no thought to anyone but himself. The only light Alistair found was in Daveth and Carver. The two appeared well suited to one another, developing a fighting technique that served each other well. When Alistair mentioned it, Carver simply fed him a sad grin and claimed his sister's fighting style was almost identical to the rogue's. The young man was the embodiment of power and strength; Alistair felt a bit superfluous, watching the way Carver handled a hurlock. It wasn't to say that Jory and Cousland weren't decent fighters - they were, though the knight was a bit stiff and clearly self-conscious to be battling alongside his city's elite. Alistair shook his head - that attitude simply wouldn't do. Grey Wardens did not hold titles for that reason, they were meant to rely on one another. If Jory - and Aedan, for that matter - didn't learn that lesson, it would be the worse for all of them.

Alistair knelt beside one of the slain hurlocks, a small phial gripped in his fingers. He pressed it against the mottled neck, catching the slow dribble of thick ichor before it stopped completely. He nudged it a bit deeper, hoping to encourage the flow as the viscous fluid was slowing to a drip before he'd gathered enough. Once full, he stoppered it, stowing it in his pouch before wiping his fingers with a handkerchief.

The others watched this operation, fascinated. Ser Jory looked almost ill, Cousland incredulous, and Daveth seemed not to care one way or another as he cleaned his nails with the tip of his dagger.

"Is that... _really_ what we need?" Carver breathed.

"Yup," Alistair said, straightening. "Two more of them, in fact. One for each of you."

"Wouldn't it be easier to get one big bottle, instead of four small ones?" Daveth's eyes flicked upward, his chin still lowered as he eyed the senior member of their party.

"Portion control," Alistair said. "Each of these holds just the right amount. We wouldn't want to poison you."

"Poison us? Does that mean - we're going to-" Carver gasped the words, eyes bugging.

_Damn!_ Alistair's mind raced. He managed a slow, feral grin, stepping past Carver and clapping him on the back. "You'll find out, my friend." Attempting nonchalance, he sauntered ahead, praying that they'd follow.

_Damn damn damn damn damn! Idiot!_

No one questioned him the next time the bottles came out, though Ser Jory did turn a delicate shade of green.

* * *

"Come on," Cousland called. "There's some kind of structure ahead - could be the old Warden outpost."

"I'm tired," Daveth whined. "I wanna go home." He and Carver smirked, two little boys pleased with each other's company. Cousland reached out and cuffed Daveth upside the head as Ser Jory's chin whipped over to focus on them. His brown eyes narrowed in suspicion, but then he turned away, perhaps not wishing to make a scene.

"Knock it off," Cousland growled, marching ahead again.

"Awfully cold," Jory muttered, chafing his hands together. "We shouldn't be out here after the sun goes down."

"For a knight, you're cowardly." Carver's cocky challenge was met with a furious stare. "What's there to be afraid of? Everything worth screaming at died on our blades back there. Grow some balls, man!" When Jory huffed an impatient sigh and turned away again, he grinned over at Alistair. "My sister's got a bigger pair than him, I swear."

"Maybe so, but how're her tits?" Daveth sniggered.

"Go suck your mother," Carver shot back, glowering.

"Rein it in, boys," Alistair sighed, jogging ahead to catch up with Cousland. After a few hours of putting up with their amateur pranks he was about out of patience with their two youngest recruits. He offered Jory an apologetic shrug as he passed. "Young asses," he muttered. He could remember acting much the same when he was their age, but he was now approaching the time when a man started to think about other things - a home, a family, a future. _Not that it's likely for me, not now... Not for a Warden. Not for me in particular._

He caught up with Cousland just as the man passed through the stone pillars.

"Yes! There - look!" Alistair pointed, and without delay Aedan marched to the chest and flipped the lid back.

"Awfully... broken, isn't it?" Daveth commented as the others wandered up. Indeed, the trunk had been all but obliterated, warped by weather, time, animals - who knew. It sagged against itself, a pile of wood seeming more likely to fall over than stand up, much less hold or protect something.

Cousland pawed through the chest, clearing out handfuls of leaves and dirt from the splintered boards. "Documents? Isn't that what the old man wanted us to find?" He stood, his pinched eyes swinging around to spear Alistair. He brushed his hands against his thighs, dust and bits of leaf mold loosening from his fingers. "Waste of fucking time." He curved over and spat into the brush, a look of sheer disgust darkening his face.

"They're not there?" Alistair took a step toward the chest himself, his movement halted by a sultry voice.

"Well now, whatever do we have here? Some scavengers you are - those bones have long since been picked clean. Perhaps you are intruders, then, come to these darkspawn-filled wilds of mine. But what is it you search for in that rotted box, I wonder."

Atop a slight ramp, a woman swayed toward them - a _woman,_ alone here in the Wilds - and what a woman she was. Paler than moonlight, with hair as black as the midnight sky, and eyes as yellow as... wait. Eyes - yellow? Alistair's gaze darted to Cousland. The man was inspecting this new arrival with shrewd interest. Daveth squeaked like a strangled mouse, and Alistair heard Carver's armor shifting, then the ringing of metal as his sword left its sheath. The woman seemed to chuckle to herself, her confident smirk sending a shiver down Alistair's spine. Suddenly, she didn't look quite as beautiful as she had a moment before.

"What say you, hmm? Scavenger, or intruder?" Her slim white hands clasped slender hips, a graceful brow arching as she surveyed their motley group. Alistair felt his cheeks burning as her... purple... shirt thingy... if it could be called that, because honestly, it was more _nothing_ than it was shirt - shifted with her arms, revealing a swath of creamy torso between a pair of - _Stop it!_ He dropped his eyes to the bare earth, now convinced she was a demon sent to torment them; five men about to be lost forever in the Korcari Wilds. _Wait, aren't there stories like that?_ He shuddered at the thought.

"Which is your preference?" Cousland asked, his imperious voice gone as sultry as her own. Alistair gaped at the man - he'd heard of people mourning in different ways, but - really?

The woman laughed. "You have spirit. And you seem at least moderately intelligent. Tell me your name."

"Don't," Daveth shuddered. "Next thing you know, she'll turn us all into toads!"

"I was not speaking to _you, _little man," the woman snapped, those eyes flashing with gold light. "Or you," she added when Carver opened his mouth. It snapped shut again before her gaze rounded on Ser Jory, whose mouth remained firmly locked as the ochre stare bypassed Alistair completely to settle on Cousland once again.

"You may call me Aedan," he offered in a careful voice, a charismatic smile widening his mouth.

"And you may call _me_ Morrigan." She smiled back, clearly approving of Cousland. Alistair shifted in dismay as a chilled mist seeped over the ground, turning the land hazy and indistinct. The distinct feel of magic tingled through the air, singing in his veins.

"She's a witch!" Daveth trembled, his voice low and frantic. "She'll put us all in the pot, she will!"

"Well if the pot's warmer than this forest, it'd be a nice change," Jory snapped, and Carver hooted at the fright on Daveth's face. Personally, Alistair was agreeing with Daveth more and more as the seconds ticked by. If she was an apostate... he gathered his energy, preparing a smite in case anything went awry. Instantly, Morrigan's head whipped in his direction, pinning him with a glance as her lips pursed. If Alistair had needed any further proof that she was an illegal mage, he'd just gotten it.

"What is it you are seeking, exactly?" she purred, her eyes finally leaving his to drift back to Cousland.

"Something that was likely never here to begin with," Cousland said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Old treaties, or some such."

A knowing glint lit within her flaxen eyes as she analyzed the remains of the chest, her fingers drumming against her hips. Alistair watched her movements, wondering just what thoughts were filling that mind of hers.

"Wait-" his mind leapt ahead. The woman's gaze danced to him as his mouth gaped. "_You _stole them, didn't you! You're some kind of - sneaky - witch-thief!"

"Eloquent _and_ intelligent. My my, are all of you as clever as this one?" She rolled her eyes, impatience thick as cream. "Twas not _I_ who removed them."

"Then who did?"

Alistair's shoulders rounded with relief when she turned her disturbing wolfish stare to Aedan, following the sound of his deep voice. It was a good question as far as questions went. Alistair followed her gaze, watching with interest as Cousland's brows darted skyward, a silent challenge issued for her to answer his query.

"Ask me... nicely," she lilted, sensual fingers playing over the alabaster column of her neck and collarbone. Alistair caught the exasperated flare of Cousland's nostrils, but the haughty nobleman regained his control after only a moment. A subtle power play was being enacted here - something Alistair could recognize, though he'd get eaten alive were he to try such a thing himself.

"My lady Morrigan, tell us, please. If you did not remove the treaties, then what happened to them?" Cousland was all manners, a polite mask prettying his typically granite expression.

"Civility, and charm. I like you." Morrigan's wolfish face stretched into a slow, carnal smile.

"Oh, sure, she likes you now. But one wrong word, and _zap_ - frog time," Alistair muttered. Cousland ignored him, though Morrigan scowled in his direction.

"Twas my mother who took them, in fact," she answered, her hips shifting as she lazed a bit closer. "I have been watching your progress for some time. Curious steps you take, disturbing places that none have dared venture for decades. Why might that be... Aedan?"

"Don't answer her," Alistair said in an undertone. "She looks Chasind. There could be others nearby."

"Oho! You fear barbarians will swoop down upon you?" Morrigan's arms lifted, ridicule painted as wide as the kohl around her eyes.

"Yes... swooping is... _bad_," Alistair said, then mentally cursed himself. _Really? Really, genius? Swooping is bad. Dunghead._

Aedan seemed to agree with his mental assessment, for his mouth twisted in disgust before he turned back to Morrigan. "Disregard my companions, my lady. Take me to your mother, so I may thank her for keeping the treaties safe for us."

Morrigan's lips curled with amusement, her head tilting as she regarded the warrior before her. It was not a question that she bring him before her mother, but rather a demand - something she found she liked. "Follow me then, if it pleases you." Morrigan turned and crested the hill. Alistair scurried after them and was stopped by Aedan's outstretched hand against his chest.

"Stay here," he ordered. "No need for you to continue to make a mess of things."

"A mess of-" Alistair sputtered, but Cousland gave him a small shove and followed Morrigan from the ruins, indifferent to the shock on his companions' faces.

Aggravation swept over him, leaching outward from the hot coal lumped in the center of his belly. Alistair turned back to the others, struggling to find the calm that normally came so easily to him. "We wait five minutes," he said tightly. "Then we're leaving."

"You can't just leave him," Jory protested. "Aedan Cousland is-"

"A first rate ass," Alistair cut him off, eyes flashing. "And if he's turned into a frog it'll be only because he never met anyone else who could do it sooner!"

Ser Jory looked as if he might protest, but then Daveth began sniggering again and he shut up.

The seconds dragged. Alistair tried counting in his head, determined to hold true to his five-minute mark, but small noises in the underbrush kept drawing his attention. He continually lost track, finding himself repeating the same ten numbers over and over again. Carver and Daveth shuffled their feet, kicking small stones about the clearing, while Ser Jory tucked his hands deep into his armpits. Poor blighter - his nose _was_ looking rather red.

When Morrigan came stalking over the hill, Alistair balked at her furious expression. He'd met darkspawn more pleasant than the look that twisted her face. Cousland came behind her, carried by his own legs, unfortunately, and not those of a frog. A pity. Unlike the witch, he possessed an air of studied neutrality - not a single clue visible to explain the woman's ire. Heedless of Cousland, or the others, her long legs flashed through the slit of her uncivilized skirt as she turned and continued the way _they'd_ come. Aedan was quick to follow her, and the others fell in without a word.

Alistair hurried to gain the spot at his side. "Did you get them?"

"Yes." The word was clipped, emotionless.

"Excellent," Alistair said, wondering just what was making Morrigan move so _fast_. Her stiff-legged walk was practically a run, though she didn't seem scared - angry, for certain, but not a bit afraid. "Um... is she leading us out?"

"With luck," Aedan said coolly, not deigning to spare a glance in Alistair's direction.

He digested this, wondering if perhaps he should find out how likely their chances of horrible magical death were. "Something happen I should know about?"

"Fuck off, templar."

_Okay then_. Alistair dropped back to walk beside the others.

"Five to one he made a pass at her," Daveth whispered, though if the twitch of Morrigan's shoulders meant anything, it was that she'd heard.

"You're on," Carver muttered back.

"Wait, what?" Alistair asked, his eyebrows shooting skyward. "You think he - really?"

"Look at her," Daveth said, lifting his chin at Morrigan's rapidly retreating figure. "I've seen that walk before. _That_ is the walk of a woman propositioned - I've done it enough times to know. Carver, your money's as good as lost."

The woman stalking ahead of them huffed, the sound carrying on the breeze. Alistair felt her magic drift across the land and before his eyes, she phased into a wolf, those voided eyes peering back once over her shoulder to ensure they didn't go running off into the Wilds. The men jerked to a stop, all but Cousland sharing a startled glance.

She returned to her path, her pace even quicker now that she was on four legs.

_An apostate_, Alistair thought with a sigh. Marvelous, really.

* * *

Alistair raked a hand through his hair, stealing a quick glance back to where Duncan stood, preparing the Joining chalice. The only information Alistair had gleaned about the ritual was that it took lyrium, and darkspawn blood, and that it was quite difficult to prepare. As a junior member of the order he wasn't privy to such secrets - or to many secrets at all. Frustrating at times, but a relief usually. Alistair found things worked best when he didn't have to be responsible for too much.

"What's taking so long?" Ser Jory complained. "Why all this secrecy? Why the testing? Haven't I earned my place?"

Daveth simply shrugged, returning to picking the darkspawn flesh out from under his nails, seemingly uninterested in the knight's moaning. Jory continued to harp, saying something now about his home and family. Carver clapped an apprehensive hand over the back of his neck, apparently nervous now. The lad had been cocksure and full of confidence that morning - eager and excited to have been chosen for the Order. Alistair, himself, had felt much the same way when chosen; it'd been his ticket out of a life prostrating to the Chantry. It made him wonder why the boy was so eager? Young, good looking, hale and hearty - there seemed little in the way of his past to bring him to the Order. The Wardens weren't picky when it came to their ranks so long as the recruits showed talent. Some joined to evade the law, as it was for Daveth, others to escape dire situations. A few were idealists, joining for the glory of being called a Grey Warden, for the supposed adventure and honor that came with being a part of the revered Order. What remained to be determined was which category Carver fell into.

Alistair's eyes widened when Ser Jory's words finally sank in. The man spoke of a wife in Highever, a child on the way. With a twisted mouth, Alistair tipped his head back against the stone wall._Damn it_, he thought, _that isn't fair_. The best that Jory could hope for now was to survive the Joining, help bring an end to the blight, and be stationed somewhere near Highever so he could see his child grow up. Grey Wardens had no families - they were warriors of the world, forever cursed to battle the putrid darkspawn. Had no one told him this?

Thoughts of the Chantry and how they'd intended to keep him from ever having a family of his own intruded once again, and a bitter laugh welled up from his throat. He ignored Aedan's curious glance when the ironic sound came out - he couldn't care less what Cousland thought of him right now. With luck, the prick would be dead in ten minutes. _Cruel, Alistair,_ he thought, sighing._Would you really wish that death on anyone? So he's an ass. Deal with it._

At least the noble son-of-a-bitch had been graced with a family, even if they were gone now. The Revered Mother had been quite determined to keep Alistair from ever marrying, and especially from - Maker forbid - procreating. He'd been watched closer than any of the other templar trainees. While most had managed at one point or another to sneak off to The Pearl to sample Sanga's wares, Alistair had never been able to join them. He'd even been whipped on one occasion, after being caught with a group of other youngsters. _As an example_, he could remember the Revered Mother's voice. None of the others had been whipped.

Oh well. It wasn't something that necessarily appealed, in any case - spending his first night with a woman in a public bed, and paying her afterward for the effort... _no. No, thank you_. But being twenty and a virgin was more than a touch frustrating at times. Wry humor and quick wit had saved him from major embarrassment on more than one occasion, though mostly he just tried to avoid the subject.

_Not as if I have time for that sort of thing anyway,_ Alistair mused as Ser Jory continued to complain. Cousland growled under his breath, growing less patient by the moment. Daveth flicked a bit of ick from the tip of his dagger in the nobleman's direction, grinning when Aedan's eyes flashed in anger. If Duncan hadn't appeared at that very moment, who _knew_ what might have happened next.

"Now we come to the joining," Duncan said, soft and serious, the hard soles of his boots crunching as he strode over the graveled earth. He set his supplies on a table set against the wall, the nearby fire burnishing his armor as he turned back to speak to the recruits. Alistair straightened, one hand raking through his hair as his heart took off in a wild gallop. Mind racing, he worked a bit of saliva over his tongue, attempting to swallow and moisten his suddenly dry mouth. The words of the Joining... how did it begin? Silly to be nervous over simply saying a few words - it wasn't as if he didn't know these men, or as if there were a thousand of them - just five - and they were all looking at him -

"Alistair, if you would?"

_Now,_ he thought, but the first words escaped him. It was... no, that wasn't it. Images of his own Joining swirled in his head; the two other men who'd stood with him, Riordan and Duncan looking on with hushed expectancy and hope in their eyes. He took a breath, distracted by his memories, hoping the words would be there, and... _damn!_ He had the last bit - _we shall join you_. Easy. But - _oh, right!_

"Join us, brothers and sisters," he began, his head lowering in a show of respect. "Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us, as we carry the duty that cannot be foresworn." It was coming easily now, his many whispered practices paying off. "And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day... we shall join _you_."

His palms ceased their sweating as the last word left his lips, a wash of relief spreading through him. He'd done it - without missing a word. How would it have looked, if he'd forgotten it? Cousland already thought him a moron; no need to augment it unnecessarily. Duncan nodded at him, then turned back to the recruits.

"You are called upon to submit yourself to the taint, for the greater good. From this moment forward... you are now Grey Wardens. Carver, step forth."

In the distance, lightning slashed the sky, cutting the darkness with a blinding brilliance. Gaze darting wildly, the young man with the vivid eyes moved one foot forward, trembling hands reaching for the silvered chalice as thunder rumbled in the distance, menacing as a bad dream. Fingers locked white around the shining bowl, nostrils flaring as he brought it to his lips. Alistair found himself holding his breath, a slight wince lifting his shoulders, his face crinkling as he waited for the moment of truth. He'd witnessed no other Joinings since his own, but the nightmare of what had happened to the one who'd died was with him still.

Carver's eyes slipped shut as he drank. In a rush, Alistair remembered it all - the hot tang of the blood, his templar senses flaring at the magic inherent in the lyrium imbued draught. Nails bit deep into his palms as he squeezed fists tight shut, watching the lad closely for the signs of...

Carver shuddered, then the broad shoulders relaxed as his eyes rolled back. Duncan rescued the chalice just as he folded in on himself, saved from a tumble onto the stones by Alistair.

"He will survive," Duncan said, dusky orbs gleaming with quiet triumph. He turned back to the table as Alistair stretched Carver out on the ground, relief tingling over his skin. He wished there was something to pillow the poor lad's head with. Why hadn't they thought to bring bedrolls, or something? Come to think of it, when _he'd _woken gagging from his own Joining he'd been on the ground as well - had no one any foresight? If they all passed out, why not be prepared?

"Daveth, step forth."

Buoyed by Carver's success, the rogue took the chalice without hesitation. Throwing a quick grin at Alistair, he put the shining bowl to his lips, tipping it upward to slide its thick contents over his tongue - his last action as a free man. _We move from one prison to another_, Alistair thought, watching Daveth drink the deadly brew.

His adam's apple bobbing beneath the cup, Daveth swallowed once, twice, three times. The chalice lowered, finding Duncan's hands again as the rogue cleared his throat, disgusted with the malodorous feel of darkspawn blood in his mouth. He straightened up, rolling his shoulders back, and Alistair moved in to catch him as well -

Daveth shook his head, one hand lifting to press his temple, bewilderment filling his eyes.

_No..._ Horror-struck, Alistair looked on as Daveth staggered, his hands clasped against his knees in an effort to steady a trembling body. Head dropping, he buckled, knees slamming against the rock as he hugged his midsection, shaking and ill. Alistair swallowed as Daveth's nails raked over the leather breastplate armoring his stomach and chest, digging deeply enough to leave marks in the sturdy material. Beads of sweat rolled from the dying man's forehead, the veins of his neck blue and strained as he paled, whiter than marble. A scream of anguish clawed from his throat, rising a panicked octave as his eyes rolled back into his head, the tiny red veins vanishing, his smooth stare blank and frightening.

"Maker's breath!" Jory gasped, both he and Cousland backing up a pace. Daveth crawled toward them, corded arms collapsing beneath his quivering frame before he pushed himself up once more, a stifled moan falling from his lips. Pure agony carved his cheeks, his mouth opening as another soundless wail left his throat. Alistair took a hesitant step forward, wondering if he should end the man's pain with a merciful slice to the throat. Duncan halted him with a muted gesture, distant thunder rumbling once more over the horizon as Daveth collapsed. He twitched, then finally was still.

No one moved, all eyes glued to the chalk-white corpse sprawled on the ground. Duncan was the first to break the reverie, turning back to the table for a moment. When he faced them again, the chalice was in his hands, more threatening than any weapon.

"Jory, step forth."

Pure terror drained Jory's face of color, his mouth working soundlessly as he backed into the stone wall.

"There is no turning back..." Duncan took a step forward, his voice hypnotic as he crooned the words to the frantic man. Jory fumbled for his sword, sturdy armor scraping against the wall as he slid sideways, attempting escape from the man who commanded him to drink his own death. The blade came free with a rasping of metal - Alistair's heart dropped from his chest when Duncan set the chalice on the table again, intense sadness in his eyes.

"No... you ask too much," Jory babbled, cracking with strain. "If - if I'd but known - I have a wife - a child -" Madness showing the rims of white, pinched eyes, he lunged, swinging at Duncan. Alistair's breath caught as his mentor dodged the blow, movements rogue-quick, belying his stoic, well-spoken demeanor. Seemingly from nowhere, a wicked blade appeared in Duncan's hand, curving edge mirroring the moonlight as he drove it up through Jory's gut. A sickening splash of scarlet laved over Duncan's wrist, the knight folding in on himself. Pain and confusion filled his eyes as he fell, struggling to draw breath through the blood that bubbled into his throat.

"I am sorry..." he graveled, sounding truly regretful as Jory's eyes dimmed, settling into a macabre stare that focused on nothing. "But the Joining is not yet complete."

Alistair's stomach churned at the calm, unruffled quality in Duncan's voice. From his tone, one would think he hadn't just sliced a man open for daring to question Grey Warden law - and after telling the victim nothing of what would be asked of him. But then, what else could his mentor have done?

This was bad... really, really bad. Two dead - one from the Joining, one because of his own stupidity. Why hadn't Jory just drunk the blasted thing? At least he might've had a chance... Alistair found himself shuddering, repressed fear coating his tongue in a bitter tonic. Everything was so damned secretive, no one knew anything of what went on at ceremonies like these. _Would people join up, if they did?_

Somehow, he doubted it.

The chalice shone from Duncan's fingers, inviting their last recruit to spin the wheel of his fate.

"Aedan, step forth."

Cousland swallowed, having the grace to look disturbed over what he'd just seen. A deep breath tugged his shoulders upward, then he strode toward Duncan, snatching the chalice in one hand. The potion was thrown back in one quick gulp, as if it were nothing more than the last swallow of wine before the tab was paid. The cup shoved back into Duncan's fingers as Cousland sucked at the air, trembling, awaiting the worst.

After a moment the taut muscles loosened, then the man spiraled to the ground in a clumsy heap. Alistair arrived a hairsbreadth too late to catch him, but did manage to keep him from cracking his head against the shale.

Duncan's head drooped, the breath rushing from his lungs as he set the chalice back on the table. Tired eyes pressed shut, his fingers lingering against the cold metal of the cup. "Come, I'll help you move him."

"I can do it," Alistair said quickly. Duncan was finally allowing himself a bit of time to be human, and he wanted to give him some space to breathe. _I dunno how he manages_, Alistair thought as he dragged Cousland over to Carver's unmoving form. _I haven't got that kind of mettle._

* * *

Duncan's voice droned above the crackling flames, his eulogy for Jory, Daveth and Peter grave and gentle. Alistair stood with his brothers, the smell of roasting flesh turning his stomach. Despite the almost perpetual hunger that had plagued him since his Joining, he was certain his appetite would be more than curtailed til morning. Cleansing fire was traditional - it released the soul from the body, sent it speeding to the Maker's side. But the odor, though better than that of rotting corpses, always left him nauseated.

He was saddened over the deaths of Jory and Daveth - they all were. Recruits were rare, with only a few being chosen each year, and even after a few decades the Ferelden Order was small - still too small, really. But Alistair's grief over these two was more detached, less personal - they would have strengthened the Order had they survived, and it was a shame that they hadn't.

But Peter's death... a lump grew in his throat as he remembered the man. Peter had been the other recruit who'd survived the Joining alongside Alistair. It had made them comrades of a sort, cohorts on equal footing in a brand new world of unknowns. They'd traveled together, trained together, joked and laughed, confided in each other. All Wardens were brothers - the Joining bound them together more closely than flesh. But Peter had quickly become his best friend.

A hand clapped Alistair's shoulders as he swallowed, struggling against his grief, not wanting to appear weak. He must have looked as if he was about to cry, for the hand's owner spoke softly in his ear. "No shame there, boy," the wizened voice reassured him. "None'll think the less of ye, should ye let 'em tears come. Good men, they were. I'd like ta think some'un'd weep for me when I leave this world, murderer and criminal though I am."

Drawing a deep breath, Alistair lowered his face to pinch the bridge of his nose, using the action to quickly sweep any betraying wetness from his lashes. The men around him were his family - the only one he'd ever had, the only one he _would_ ever have. Peter was gone, but only a few hours ago he'd gained two new brothers. Who could tell - perhaps even Cousland would prove companionable, though he suspected Carver likely to be more so.

Even in the privacy of his mind he fought to be cheerful, generating these uplifting thoughts in an attempt to quash the loneliness that hovered like a vulture, watching for him to fall, waiting to consume him bite by ravenous bite.

* * *

_Don't forget to review and let me know what you think so far! Reviews make me type faster. ;-) Hoping to update this once a week._


	2. Chapter 2: Alistair

**~ Alistair ~**

"To seeing the light of tomorrow's day!"

"Fuck that - to seeing the opening of another pair of legs!"

Hearty laughter and a raucous cheer lifted from the Wardens' fire. Alistair's cheeks heated, and he raised his cup with what he hoped was a lecherous grin. The keg of ale was emptied in short order, the mugs returned to individual packs, weapons prepared, armor fastened. All that was needed was their commander, who'd gone to speak once more with the king before the battle began.

Carver returned from his quick errand, his eyes hooded, tension written in the set of his shoulders.

"Doing okay?" Alistair asked, concerned for the boy. He'd just gone to tell his sister of his Joining. Alistair had nearly winced when he'd heard that - she hadn't known of his decision? Maker, what if the lad had died? He'd have been gone without a trace, and his family would never have known what happened to him. Had Carver's choice to join the Wardens really been _that_ rash?

"Fine," Carver said, his voice quick and casual, gaze flicking to Cousland. The noble warrior looked bored, leaning against one of the graveled pillars surrounding their campfire. The sole of one foot rested against the stone, his hands tucked behind his back, head lolling against the rock.

Duncan appeared then with their orders. Alistair waved a come-hither gesture at Cousland, who sighed loudly and pushed off from the granite. It seemed fairly standard - Duncan assigned out the usual companies to their expected places. Men began to break away from the fire, the sound of rough leather boots mingling with the crackling flames. Within moments, the only ones left were Alistair, Duncan and the new junior Wardens.

Duncan drew a deep breath, his dark skin taking on a golden glow in the light of the flames. "King Cailan has requested that the three of you light the beacon in Tower Ishal."

"What?" Alistair was surprised. "But - the battle-"

"Do you _always_ question your betters?" Cousland's chin lifted in silent challenge. He quirked a brow, staring down his cultured nose at Alistair. After a few seconds during which Alistair mostly sputtered, Cousland turned back to Duncan. "Inform his majesty that we will carry out his orders, and without delay."

Duncan dipped his chin, acknowledging Aedan's words, and Alistair very nearly growled. Insufferable, that's what the man was. Mouth snapping shut, he looked away, irritated. He'd hoped to remain by Duncan's side, but now he had to babysit. _Wonderful._

Duncan said a few more words about when the beacon should be lit and how urgent their assignment was. Cousland ate it up, swearing they would complete the errand to perfection. _Boot licker._ Alistair's disgust was growing. Cousland hadn't been nearly so agreeable around him, or even with Duncan. But bring royalty into it and the man was falling all over himself.

"Afterward, can we join the battle?" Carver's fingers flexed around the hilt of his sword, cerulean eyes almost begging. The lad had come from Cailan's own regiment. _He probably thought he'd be seeing _more_ battle as a Warden, not less,_ Alistair realized. _Poor sod. There'll be more than enough before this is over._

"If things go according to plan, there will be no need," Duncan said. "Loghain's men will be more than a match for the remaining darkspawn, and there will be little left to do. But I will leave it to Alistair's judgement. Do what you think seems best."

Cousland's glance slid sideways, sizing up his competition for leadership. Alistair shifted uncomfortably beneath the scrutinizing glare, feeling rather like an insect beneath glass.

"Go now, and Maker speed your way," Duncan said. Carver and Cousland crossed their arms over their chests, bowing in acknowledgement of their commander. Alistair stepped quickly after him, putting a bit of distance between himself and the others before closing one hand around Duncan's arm. The Warden turned, forehead crinkling as he realized Alistair had followed him away.

"Duncan... I don't like it," Alistair began, shaking his head, his mouth thinning. "Send Aedan and Carver to light the beacon - let me come with you."

"There are men enough, Alistair. The king's orders are given. His concern seems mostly to be for our... newest members," Duncan said, graveled voice firm. The senior Warden's eyes locked with his own, mute command shining from within.

"But - but why must _I_ accompany them?"

"Cailan ordered it. That should be reason enough," Duncan said. "He specifically wanted me to send you with the new recruits to light the beacon."

"Cailan," Alistair snipped. "The royal nincompoop. You know, the only reason people listen to him at all is he's the king."

Duncan said nothing, lips pursing as he waited.

Alistair groaned, his eyes rolling heavenward as his shoulders slumped in defeat. "Fine... but if Cailan asks me to don a dress and dance the Remigold I'm drawing the line."

Rather than the exasperated sigh he'd expected from his mentor, a trace of a smile touched his lips, and Duncan held out a hand for Alistair to clasp. "Maker watch over you, my boy."

Alistair's eyes followed Duncan as the warrior strode away toward the battlefield. His stomach was doing flips over the upcoming battle - though not for himself. His assignment was all too easy - run up a thousand steps and light a fire. He supposed it only made sense to keep the newest Wardens out of it - _They don't know any of the formations, any of the drills, _Alistair thought as he kicked at a tuft of grass. _They'd be fodder. But Andraste's flaming sword, how many Wardens does it take to throw a torch in a tinder pile? _

Cousland had sauntered off to the armorer as soon as Duncan made his exit, claiming he needed to have some bit of his chainmail seen to before they left. For all his insistence that they would complete the task without delay, he seemed to have no problem making them wait while a bent buckle was straightened. They were, for all intents and purposes, stuck until the ass decided they were ready to go. Though if he took much longer, Alistair planned on dragging him bodily away from the armorer's tent. Sounds of battle were already beginning in the valley below, and he was starting to get anxious.

A bit of gleam on the ground snagged Alistair's eye as he kicked at the turf. He knelt, finding the source of his interest - a rough white stone, with pink veined lines running through it. It glittered somewhat in the light, and he turned it, admiring the unique opalescence. For no other reason than that it was beautiful, he tucked it into his pouch. Silly impulse, perhaps, but he liked naturally beautiful things. They were rare, special - worth saving in a world filled with ugliness and hatred. Carver looked on in silence, seeming to find nothing odd about Alistair taking a rock with him into battle.

"So... um." Carver shuffled over to him. "Cousland seems... um..."

"Like a git?"

"Oh, thank the Maker," Carver laughed. "I can't stand the son-of-a-bitch."

"You and me both," Alistair grinned. It faded a moment later as he thought of Daveth and Jory. It could have been worse, he supposed - Carver might not have shown up, and then the only survivor would have been Cousland. Horrible thought. "So, um, your fighting style - you worked with your sister to develop it?" Alistair asked, searching for some topic of conversation that didn't revolve around Cousland. If he could help it, he wanted to think about the man as little as possible.

"Marian and I trained together," Carver agreed. "She's a right genius with a bow, and no slouch with her daggers either."

"Must have been nice, having a sister who'd work with you like that... Was it just the two of you, or..." Alistair found himself hungry for this simple information. Carver had grown up in the way he'd always wished to - with a family, siblings, parents. Peter had understood his fascination with what might be considered a normal childhood, and been more than generous with his stories of home.

"Oh, no, we have another sister - my twin actually. Bethany's her name. She isn't a fighter though, she's a-" Carver cut himself off, a flash of apprehension brightening those blue eyes for a moment before his face stilled once more. "-a brat," he finished. "She never wanted to learn weaponry."

"It's a touch more rare for women," Alistair said, wondering at the lad's hesitation. "Two sisters, huh? What was _that_ like?"

Carver snorted. "Trust me, you don't want to know."

They spent a few more minutes in idle conversation - Carver told him of his family in Lothering, and Alistair confessed to his history as a templar-in-training. The same flash of apprehension skittered over Carver's face when this was mentioned, though it was gone again so quickly that Alistair wondered if he'd imagined it.

The night sky roiled with grays, oranges and purples, a frigid, angry wind whipping stray leaves and bits of bracken across the ground. The smell of sleet was thick, and Alistair shivered. Hopefully movement would warm him up. He was on the brink of bawling Cousland out for taking so long when the man finally appeared, buckle intact, his armor gleaming. Maker's sake, had the ass gotten it _polished_? He marched past them, barely sparing a backward glance as he called.

"Did you need a gilded invitation? Let us be off! The Tower won't wait."

"Maker, I think I really hate him," Alistair muttered, earning a smirk from Carver.

The bridge across the canyon was busy, trafficked with archers lined up along the edge of the waist-high wall. Behind the stone ramparts, the bow-wielders took aim, drew back and fired, loosing their shafts into the murky black of the field below. Alistair tracked one such bolt as it was lost in the darkness - the horde was a writhing mass, individuals indistinguishable. He wondered - in his golden armor, would Cailan stand out like a beacon? Could he find Duncan, a shining bit of white in the sea of -

"My sister's likely here somewhere," Carver murmured. "She'd be with the - _Maker, help me_! LOOK OUT! _MARIAN_!"

Not twenty feet from where they stood, a small form sent arrow after arrow from her bow, drawing with the ease of expert marksmanship. At Carver's bellow, her head snapped toward them, and Alistair's breath caught as he realized it was the girl he'd caught Peter talking with - _this _was Carver's sister? The most vivid pair of blue eyes he'd ever seen - aside from her brother's, of course - gazed back at them. Why hadn't he realized she was related to Carver? The eyes were unforgettable; he should have known. He found himself mesmerized - he slowed, his gaze raking the short black locks, raven-tips just barely peeking from beneath a cowled hood. Her face, though shadowed, was exquisite - the family resemblance was immediately obvious. She was smaller than her brother, feminine, her movements graceful as a young doe. Plump pink lips parted as she breathed, showing the edge of straight, white teeth. Rosy cheeks, softer than a flower - or, at least, so he imagined-

Something hurtled past him, a silver flash, and Marian's sapphire eyes widened in dismay as she turned to see the boulder hurtling toward the bridge - aimed for the spot where she stood. Alistair's heart leapt to his throat as he realized she had just seconds to live.

"No-" he cried, echoing Carver, whose face had gone slack with fear. Neither of them noticed Cousland's mad sprint until the man tumbled into her, spinning them both end over end from the missile's path.

An explosion of rubble and debris cascaded around Marian and Cousland, the impact enough to deafen the two Wardens who rocked back, throwing up their hands to shield themselves from shrapnel. Coughing, they straightened, waiting with baited breath for the dust to settle. Had they cleared in time? Was it possible Aedan had snatched her from death's icy threat?

Movement, and a choked sob slipped from Carver's lips as the forms of his sister and their fellow grew visible through the silty atmosphere.

Cousland left Marian's side almost as soon as they could see, and came running toward them, annoyance plastered over his handsome face. "Don't just stand there - let's _move_!" he shouted, and without another word he took off across the bridge once more. Alistair paused, his eyes darting toward the maiden who was struggling to her feet. She _seemed_ unhurt, so with a certain amount of reluctance he chased after Cousland and Carver, wishing they could take a moment to make certain she was fine.

"Your sister's a real pain in the ass, Carver," Cousland snapped. "This is the second time I've tangled with her today - she was spying on a royal strategy meeting earlier."

"Marian wouldn't do that!" Carver retorted. "What in the void would give you that idea?"

"The fact that she was perched on a wall, right above Cailan's head? Why else would someone choose that spot?"

"She likes to climb," Carver muttered. "She was probably looking for something."

"And what was your problem?" Cousland glared back at Alistair. "You were closest to her. Didn't you see the damned rock?"

Alistair swallowed. No, he hadn't... he'd been too caught up in her eyes. As much as it galled him, he had reason to be grateful to the ornery son-of-a-bitch. Whatever else Cousland might be, he was _fast_ - especially for a warrior. Had he not moved when he did, Marian Hawke would be nothing but a smear over the grimy stones.

He threw a last glance over his shoulder, seeking one last look at her before he never saw her again. Like the stone he'd slipped into his pouch, Marian Hawke was a bit of beauty in an awful world - a wild rose surrounded by death and darkness. He'd keep the memory of her face as a treasure, something bright to think of as he tried to avoid the blightmares that plagued all Grey Wardens as they slept. Her small form was prone, huddled in the dust, but her head had turned in their direction, the rich blue eyes focused on their fleeing figures... _on me?_ No, most likely she was watching her brother... but Alistair's heart picked up at the anguish in those eyes. How he wished he could gather her up, murmur soft words of comfort, shield her from the evils of the world...

A stone turned beneath his foot, nearly spilling him to the ground. Cousland barked at him, and Alistair shook himself, focusing on their task. Time enough to remember her face later on.

_It isn't as if I'll see her again..._

It wasn't likely that _any_ of them would see her again.

* * *

Alistair opened his eyes to the sight of packed straw and wattle. Smoke filled his nostrils, and every sense he possessed twanged into high alert. Blood singing with the feel of magic, he bolted upright, then yelped when he discovered himself to be naked, covered only by a thin blanket. His fingers snatched at the fabric, curling it upward around his chest.

"Maker's ass-"

He was cut off by the sound of a throaty chuckle, and ice chased through his veins. _The witch!_

She sashayed toward him, yellow eyes highly amused at his discomfort. "Is the templar somewhat defenseless at the moment? Oh, how my heart weeps for you-"

"Morrigan," he gasped. "Where's my armor? My sword? My shield? Where's Carver and Aedan?"

"Calm yourself," she drawled, unimpressed with his demands. "Your friends are just there-" she gestured vaguely, and Alistair saw the others stretched out on nearby pallets. Both were sleeping, faces peaceful, untouched by the worry he felt.

"What - why-"

"Healing is easier when we can _see_ all of your wounds," she shrugged. "Don't assume we had any desire to view you in all your... glory." She dragged her lips over the word, a teasing glint reflecting as she reveled in his embarrassment.

Blood rushed to Alistair's cheeks..._ We_? Andraste's ass, that meant Morrigan's _mother_ had seen him as well. Inwardly, he groaned. He'd yet to meet the woman, but from what Cousland had said she sounded positively... _witchy_.

"That one..." Morrigan flicked a glance at Carver. "He intrigues me. He cannot be much more than a boy... he has an innocence."

"Planning on making him your next meal?" Baiting a witch of the Wilds was probably one of the stupider things Alistair could do, but something about Morrigan brought this side out of him. She huffed at him, then stalked from the hut, saying something about how his things were in the trunk by the door. Once the door closed behind her, he threw back the blanket and hurried to dress, wanting out of the rude dwelling as soon as possible. _Apostates from the Korcari Wilds... what next?_

* * *

Next, one of them came with them.

After a... colorful bit of dialogue with Flemeth, Cousland had been convinced to accept the sexy witch into their group. Alistair was certain it was the worst idea anyone had come up with since he'd let Duncan talk him into staying off the battlefield. Perhaps if he'd been there, things would have been different. Deep down, he _knew_ if being at Duncan's side would have meant certain death for him as well - his mentor had saved his life by sending him with Cousland and Carver. His eyes still smarted, the lump in his throat hard to breathe past.

The battle lost, the Wardens dead, Cailan abandoned on the field, Duncan left to his blood-soaked fate... _and I am now Ferelden's senior Warden. In the middle of a Maker-be-damned blight. Could this possibly get worse?_

Alistair shook himself, getting a grip on his emotions. Perhaps later, when Cousland wasn't quite so _around_, he could indulge in the despair he felt over Duncan's death. In the terror that filled him when he thought of taking on a position of leadership. In the anger that boiled his blood when he remembered hearing that Loghain had quit the field.

_And they call _me_ a bastard,_ Alistair thought, rage tamping back the sadness for a hot moment. If it was his last action as a Warden, he'd see Loghain dead. _This I swear, Duncan_, he vowed. _I won't let you down._

The moon was on the rise when they approached the edge of the woods. Carver was stumbling, and even Cousland seemed to flag, their long day and the fatigue of speed-healing catching up with them.

"Let's find a spot to camp," the man ordered. "We'll rest before going on-"

"Darkspawn!" Alistair cried, feeling the familiar wave of sensation flutter his stomach. Why hadn't he sensed them earlier? There were... a lot... and they were... seconds away... He shot a frantic glance at Morrigan. "I thought you said you could get us around the horde!"

"This isn't the horde, dolt," Morrigan snarled back, her staff spinning into her hands. "Less than thirty - the horde is miles from here!"

"Oh good, because we can handle thirty," Alistair griped. "I hope youcan use that staff!"

Carver paled, but he gripped his sword in capable hands, automatically backing toward Alistair. Cousland did something similar, the three of them clumping into a triangle of defense. Morrigan took up a position nearby, the thickness of the magic she drew sparking Alistair's blood. Seconds later the clearing filled with howling darkspawn, slavering as they rushed forward. Alistair attempted to count, but there were so many-

A percussion of arrows thrummed from the trees above, quicker than Alistair would have thought possible. The bolts slid through throats, chests, pierced tough hide and dripped welling ichor. Barely a minute passed before the last of them fell with a sharp _thunk_, the arrow embedded between the wild eyes of a genlock. Between their blades, Morrigan's magic and their unseen savior, thirty darkspawn had been nothing.

Alistair panted, his heart racing, the sword dipping in his trembling hand. He pulled a rag from his pouch and cleaned the darkspawn blood from his blade before sheathing it, nodding approval at Carver, who did the same. Cousland, however, walked to a tree and peered into the leaves.

"You can come down now," he said, and Alistair snapped his gaze upward, breath catching when _Marian Hawke curled down out of the branches!_

One arm was clutched to her side, but even thus hindered, her movements were feather-light, and easy - with one hand, she made tree-climbing look like a walk in the park. Cousland seemed vastly amused by her refusal to meet his gaze, and gave a half chuckle as she landed on the ground, boots muffled by the thick moss that grew around the tree's base.

"Why is it I always find you in the strangest places?"

"Carver," she called, ignoring Cousland. Her voice was breathy, relieved - and Carver rushed to her, the two of them gripping each other in a tight hug before she forced him back, her gaze raking his lanky frame. A moment later her eyes lidded, and she trembled as Carver's arms surrounded her once more.

"I was so worried," she murmured, the words barely audible. "You're safe."

"I am," he nodded. "Thanks to Morrigan and her mother. Otherwise..."

She shook her head, whispering something too softly for Alistair to make out. Her words mattered little to him at the moment... seeing her again was doing strange things to his heart.

The face he'd seen from a distance and known to be beautiful was far more than that - now that he could see her up close, he wondered how he'd ever halted at the thought _beautiful_.

Her nose was long and straight, her cheeks softly curved, perfectly formed to fit a man's palm. Thick lashes framed her vibrant eyes, a gorgeous contrast to the azure sparkle. Her cheeks were still rosy, but up close he could see just how creamy her skin was, moon-kissed by the softly banding light drowsing through the trees.

Alistair swallowed.

Carver's eyes narrowed then, his fingers rising to touch a spot on her shoulder, and for the first time Alistair tore his eyes from her face to see that she was hurt. Badly, if the spreading stain was any indication. _She'd fought - with a wound?_ She clasped her brother's hand, moving it from her injured shoulder, protesting in a voice soft and musical.

Carver growled at her, swatting her hand away and beginning to remove the overtunic. Cousland stepped forward to help, and Alistair nearly choked when the two of them yanked the tunic to her waist, exposing her skin, her stomach, her... Eyes flashing wide, he jerked his head away, focusing on the leafy carpet.

"Shades, she's wearing smallclothes. Go and help, nitwit," Morrigan hissed. "Hold her shoulders."

His mouth dry as sawdust, Alistair scurried to stand behind Marian, fumbling his gloves off and throwing them to the ground. After a moment of hesitation, he clasped the ivory shoulders, his heart speeding to feel the silken softness of her skin beneath his callouses.

"There's still a portion of the tip lodged within," Cousland murmured, his voice surprisingly sympathetic - shocking, that the ass would have it in him. His eyes darted to Alistair's, and the two of them nodded, grim with the knowledge of what was coming next. It would have to come out.

Carver clutched her hand as the three of them guided her down to the ground, Marian's eyes slipping shut as they settled on the forest floor. She was no stranger to battle - Alistair could tell, she, too, knew what was about to happen. She inhaled, all stoicism as the air left her lungs in a preparatory breath.

"Alistair, hold her arms. Carver, I'll need your dagger," Cousland mused.

With somewhat less hesitation this time, Alistair slid his arms through hers, effectively holding her from jerking and making the wound worse. When one of her hands curled around his arm in response, the beat of his heart grew so strident it echoed in his ears. Ebony hair brushed his chin as her head swiveled... she was just so _close_. Her scent - beneath the blood and sweat, there was something _different_ about her. Something... female. Sweet, earthy. Vacillating waves of hot and cold washed over him, but the flush of heat ended when Cousland dug the blade into her chest.

Marian gasped, the low cry slipping between lips that clearly had no desire to give one up. Alistair's eyes shut, beads of sweat breaking out on his own forehead as he listened to her harsh breathing, to the scrape of metal against metal as Cousland's dagger _just_ missed the arrowhead. Faint nausea rose in his stomach as another sob sounded, and he nearly cried out himself at the pain he knew she must be feeling. Carver yelped just then, and Alistair realized she was squeezing his hand with enough pressure to turn his fingers purple.

She bore up well enough, braver than most of the soldiers Alistair had seen take similar treatment. Cousland was _not_ the most gentle chirurgeon he'd ever witnessed, though he seemed to be working for speed rather than delicacy. A few seconds more, and the notched tip of an arrowhead dropped into Marian's lap.

"Bandages," Cousland muttered, and Morrigan appeared behind him with a torn section of blanket from someone's pack. With his luck, it was from Alistair's own - not that he cared, not if it would help her. Blood streamed from the aggravated wound, and Marian sagged against him, her soft form nestled into his chest.

He drew his arms away, then dared to wrap them about her, lifting her slightly to allow Morrigan and Cousland to bandage her properly. Carver, meanwhile, spread blankets, and Alistair found he didn't really mind holding her while things were prepared. All too soon, he laid her in the soft nest her brother had made, saddened by the loss of her warmth.

"That's that," Cousland said brusquely. "So. Who's hungry?"

"Starved," Carver said, eager. "I think I could eat a moose right now."

"Morrigan-" Cousland began.

"If you wish food, I suggest you hunt it and cook it," the witch snapped back. "I did not come with you to clean your clothing and prepare your meals."

"You don't have to cook," Carver said hastily. "I can manage it, I think."

"Really," Morrigan said, calculating interest lighting her eyes. "Interesting."

Alistair ignored them. His stomach was growling as well, but food was the last thing on his mind at the moment. He continued to kneel at Marian's side, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. If he had to, he would watch all night to ensure she continued breathing.

* * *

**_A/N: _**_Thanks to Jaden Anderson for all her help with her characters, for beta'ing, and also for just bein' awesome! _

_Thanks so much for reading! Please do leave a review and let me know what you think. :-D_


	3. Chapter 3: Alistair

**~ Alistair ~**

"Move her."

"No!"

"She has bled on _my_ blanket and I wish to clean it before we travel again. Move her!"

"Maker's sake, she's injured! How can you be so... cruel?" Alistair backed protectively over Marian's body, resisting the urge to slide his sword from the sheath over his back. If he drew steel, who _knew_ what the witch would do.

Morrigan's lips thinned, yellow eyes flashing. "Move her or I shall kill her where she sleeps. Do not test me on this, templar."

Alistair gaped at the witch, positive he'd never met a more poisonous person in his life. _Andraste's sword, but she makes Cousland seem warm and fuzzy. _Deciding it'd be better not to take chances, Alistair knelt and scooped the sleeping woman into his arms, lobbing Morrigan a nasty look as he stood. Marian lolled against his shoulder, so helpless, so dependent on him... _She's just asleep,_ he reminded himself, moving a few feet away to a soft patch of moss and bracken. Without even the winter sun to cut the chill, the night was growing colder by the moment, and he was worried for the slight woman. She'd borne Cousland's impromptu surgery with such grace. Alistair had never needed it done himself, but he _had_ been stabbed - likely, it amounted to much the same thing. Either way, a knife wound was serious business.

Morrigan snatched her blanket with a dark glare and stalked off into the darkness toward the river. Carver had gone in that direction not long ago, cleaning up after their evening meal. He'd done a fair job with cooking, though Cousland hadn't been impressed with the boy's simple preparation of the rabbits he'd returned with. _What does he want?_ Alistair thought. _We're lucky Carver can cook at all. There's no way I'd trust Morrigan with our food._

That spot didn't look too bad - no sharp stones or exposed dirt, at least. Alistair knelt, doing his best not to jostle the fragile girl in his arms, and laid her in the plush undergrowth. He sat back, lips pursed, then retrieved his own blanket from the pile Marian had been laying in. Sure enough - Morrigan had torn a strip from one end to make Marian's bandage, leaving the fabric ragged. He shivered - how cold was it going to get? He was no healer, but it seemed logical that someone with a bleeding wound shouldn't spend the night outside on the freezing ground during the coldest month of the year. Vague worries of the taint chased through his mind, but he dismissed them almost as quickly as they surfaced. If she'd been tainted, she almost certainly would be showing signs by now. _ Thank the Maker she's an archer,_ he thought.

Setting the blanket on the ground, he considered. Her cloak was nearby - he would start with that. Retrieving the garment, he covered her as best as he could, surprised at how well it seemed to be working. It was voluminous, a swath of serviceable forest-green, sturdy and waterproofed - better than his own blanket, truth be told. So large for one so small... he tucked the fabric gently around her shoulders, doing his best not to disturb the bandages. She murmured in her sleep, those rosy lips holding him mesmerized for a moment. His heart picked up, palms sweating as he reached out to brush calloused fingers over her petal-soft cheek.

Carver and Morrigan strolled back into camp then, the neatly folded blanket hung over the lad's arms. Alistair stood up in a hurry, moving away from Carver's sister before he could be suspected. Of anything. Not that there was anything worth suspecting. He'd been covering her - that was all. Right.

Carver ignored him, completely unaware, engrossed in Morrigan and whatever she spoke of. Feeling foolish, Alistair gathered Marian's things and laid them nearby for her to find - her jerkin, her bow, the quiver of arrows. Taking up his blanket, he went to make his bed across the clearing from where Marian slept. And if he placed himself so that he could watch her... well, who could blame him, really?

He was a touch surprised when Morrigan approached Marian a short time later and moved her cloak aside. The witch peeled the bandage away, smearing some sort of salve in the wound before laying a poultice atop the torn flesh. Marian's raven head turned, murmuring in her sleep, but she didn't wake. Alistair watched, untrusting of Morrigan's intent, the muscle below his jaw twitching with tension. _One hint of magic and I'll cut her down. _Apostates...

"Will that heal her?" Carver knelt beside the witch, naked hope in his eyes. Morrigan turned her flaxen glance his way, lips curving upward. She seemed amused by the young man's concern. _She's like a black widow_, Alistair observed, _the spider who devours her mate_.

"She shall be well enough by morning," Morrigan drawled, tugging the cloak back over Marian's comatose form. "She is lucky to have one such as you to care for her."

"She was always the one caring for us," Carver muttered. "Ever since father died. You'd think I'd have been the man of the family, right?" A bitter chuckle spilled from his lips.

"There are other ways to prove oneself a man," Morrigan offered, her voice soft. "Joining an order whose aim is saving the country from certain destruction... I find this far more _manly_ than remaining at home to care for those who are already perfectly self-reliant." Her lambent eyes lifted, netting Carver in. Alistair raised a brow. Carver couldn't _possibly_ be buying into this.

"Well, I... I mean, it wasn't any big deal..." Carver demurred, rocking back on his heels. "Just something a man should do for his country, I think."

Alistair gagged to himself. This was _not_ happening. How could anyone possibly be attracted to - to -

"I think you are a rare individual, Carver Hawke," Morrigan mused, one elegant finger trailing along his arm. "A woman likes to know there is someone she can rely on, someone who can... keep her safe."

The two of them gazed at each other, the moment stretching out and growing embarrassing. Alistair rolled his eyes, then cleared his throat loudly.

Carver startled, then scrambled to his feet, stammering something about going to find Cousland, who was out scouting. He practically ran into the woods, drawing a chuckle from Alistair.

Morrigan was not as amused. "I'll thank you to stay out of my affairs," she all but hissed at him.

"Carver's just a kid. What are you, on your third century?"

Morrigan bared her teeth, a feral snarl ripping from her throat.

"Oooh, I'm afraid!" Alistair wriggled his fingers at her, his voice all a-tremble. "Please, big scary witch, don't cast a spell on me!" He let his hands drop, then shook his head, disgusted. "He shouldn't be distracted by someone like you, anyway. The blight is too important."

"Such a hypocrite, to speak of distractions," Morrigan snipped. "Your infatuation with that girl is no better."

"I'm not-"

"Oh_ do_ shut up. 'Tis as obvious as the sun. I can smell it on you; you're like a dog in heat." Morrigan stood, hips lazing back and forth in a sinuous pattern. She turned back, ochre eyes frigid, her whisper subtly threatening. "Interfere in my business, and I'll make sure you regret it."

A chilling fear washed through him as the witch sauntered away, presumably after the boy she probably planned on eating. He recovered a moment later, giving himself a slight shake to dispel the irrational feeling, shouting after her "He'll only give you indigestion!" But the words seemed hollow, even to his own ears.

He'd drawn the middle guard shift, so settling down, he attempted to sleep. His eyes locked on Marian's quiet form, trying not to think of what Morrigan had said about him being obvious.

* * *

The night passed without issue, and Alistair woke early, even after his midnight guard shift. Carver and Morrigan headed out in search of breakfast, and Cousland was still on his patrol.

Alistair went immediately to check on Marian - she seemed fine. Morrigan had cast a sort of warming spell over the area the night before, so his fears of freezing were never realized. But even so, he decided to build the fire up a bit - it would be needed to cook whatever Carver and Morrigan brought back, anyway.

He gathered deadfall, then broke a few of the larger sticks over his knee before feeding them into the fire. Marian jumped at the largest _crack_, and Alistair winced, feeling guilty. The fire crackled, merry and bright, and so he sat across from her, watching for those blue eyes to open, holding his breath at the thought of seeing them again.

Marian's raven head rolled from side to side, slightly at first then with more energy. One small hand poked out from beneath the cloak, her fingers curling into the moss that made her bed. When her eyes flew open a moment later, she sat up, her brother's name gasping from her lips. She swayed, recovering quickly as both hands pressed to her face.

Not wanting to be caught staring, Alistair spoke. "Oh good, you're awake," he managed. _Good. Casual enough._ Marian turned at the sound of his voice, her vividly blue eyes taking on a look of confused almost-recognition.

"Alistair," he reminded her, thinking of the brief moment they'd met before the battle when Peter had introduced them. She nodded, remembrance lighting her eyes, then buried her face in her hands once more.

The memory of his brother-in-arms saddened him, and he swallowed, thoughts of Peter leading to thoughts of Duncan. He drew an unsteady breath, fighting to control the rush of emotion. Now wasn't the time.

"Where's Carver?" she asked, her hands dropping into her lap.

"Out hunting with Morrigan. And Aedan is scouting for more darkspawn before we continue on our way."

"Aedan..." she mused, her sapphire eyes narrowing.

"Cousland."

She nodded once, her lips pursing. Wincing, she looked down, her fingers slipping beneath her overtunic to rub the flesh of her shoulder. She hissed as she pulled the fabric aside, revealing an angry red welt instead of the gaping hole Cousland's blade had left. Whatever Morrigan had used on her had done the trick - she was practically healed. Alistair almost felt grateful. _Who'd have thunk - the two people I hate most right now, saving her life. Makes a man feel bad for hating them._

"Um, thanks for helping me," she murmured, rubbing her shoulder.

Alistair shrugged, a small smile touching his lips. "Hey, it's not every day you get to let a beautiful woman faint on you," he joked.

Her eyes snapped to his, and he wondered if he'd gone too far. _Back off,_ he warned himself, not wanting to scare her away with compliments. His fear was unfounded, however, as he learned when she spoke next.

"I did _not_ faint," she grumbled, then stooped over and snatched up her jerkin.

"You fainted," he responded, the words tumbling out before he could think of a more appropriate response. She scowled at him, and he could have kicked himself. _Idiot! _he thought. _Say the right thing, just once, please?_ "It's alright. I think I would faint too if I had a blade digging an arrowhead out of my flesh."

She blinked at him, and Alistair shrugged, hoping she'd see his words as casual, instead of what they were - stupid. "We're heading into Lothering today. Your brother says your family lives there. You're welcome to join us. Safety in numbers and all that."

_What was wrong with that?_ he thought when she groaned, raking her hands through her short hair. He frowned, hating the apprehension that flickered over her face. "Don't you want to return home?"

A bitter chuckle tumbled from her lips, though she didn't deign to answer. Pushing to her feet, she grabbed her bow and quiver, then shimmied up the nearest tree trunk.

Alistair tipped his head back, his eyes falling closed in disappointment. He wasn't really surprised that she was escaping. But it didn't make the hurt any less.

"Yeah," he sighed. "I don't want to talk to me either."

* * *

"We're the only Wardens left."

Marian's eyes widened. "The only ones? In all of Ferelden?"

"Makes us damned important, I know," Cousland continued. "You not being an initiate I'm afraid I can't say too much more, but I suppose I can tell you that the hope of the country rests on us. Wardens have always been the ones to stop the blight. It's a good thing I was recruited - we need a strong leader now."

Alistair rolled his eyes, the self-important speech grating on him. At least Marian didn't seem all that impressed - her look of annoyance lifted his spirits. Aedan had just sort of taken over, and rather than fight about it he was letting the noble prick walk in the front and make some decisions. _Maybe he _would_ make a better leader than me_, Alistair thought. _Maker knows he wants the job - why not just let him do it?_

"We are a few hours from Lothering," Morrigan announced. "Perhaps Carver and I should scout ahead, make certain there are no darkspawn groups preparing to pounce on us."

"There aren't any. I can sense-" Alistair began, but cut himself off with a yelp when the grass beneath his feet caught fire. "Hey!" He scowled at the witch.

"Your senses failed us last night," Morrigan snapped. "I prefer my own eyes, thank you. As I said, Carver and I shall scout the path. Follow as you will." She shimmered, becoming a wolf before their eyes, setting Alistair's blood all a-tingle. One graceful paw lifted as she turned beguiling eyes on Carver, who jogged after her, seeming not at all perturbed by her strange habit.

"She's a..." Marian was startled, but surprisingly didn't seem frightened.

"An apostate," Alistair agreed. "I don't like it, either. Hopefully she doesn't attract the attention of the templars while we're in Lothering."

Carver's sister glanced at him, her nose wrinkling a bit, before adjusting the bow strung across her chest. Her feet sped, carrying her a few steps ahead.

"Um, so, you have a sister, Carver said?" Alistair hurried to catch up with her, wanting to take the opportunity to chat if at all possible.

Marian's eyes sharpened, piercing him with her sky-bright stare. "Why do you want to know?"

_Maker, what did I say? _"Just...trying to be friendly?"

She studied him for a moment, then turned forward again, continuing her trend of silence.

Alistair wondered why he was even bothering. Suddenly, his nerves faded. Why should he stick his neck out for this slip of a girl, no matter how beautiful she was? So far all she'd done was ignore him. What kind of a fool was he? He'd liked her better when she'd been nothing but a dream to carry with him - a picture of a strong, beautiful woman, with eyes like the sea after a storm. Mentally throwing up his hands, he decided a different approach was necessary. "I was raised by dogs, myself."

Marian's eyebrows shot skyward. "Dogs."

"Mm. Flying dogs. From the Anderfels." This was more his sort of territory - diffuse the situation with humor. Find a way to laugh. Enough with the serious - a natural paramour he wasn't. Pure silliness? That he could do.

Her lips twitched. "Flying, mountainous dogs."

"Well, the dogs themselves weren't mountainous. Except for mum - she was enormous. Ate all the time, great big rolls of fat. And oh, the baths - they were quite fastidious, you know. Twice a day, into the lake, all of us pups. Ever bathed in freshly melted snow?"

"In the winter," she said, a small, amused smile peeking at him. "You know, when it snows."

"See, in the Anderfels, it was snowy all the time. The northern climate and all that. We lived at the very top of this mountain, and right in the middle was this huge crater. Once a day, a dragon would fly in - I think he used to be friends with my parents, or something - and melt enough snow for us to wash with..."

Alistair spun his yarn, letting the silly words flow, and found himself delighted with Marian's reaction. She chuckled, she grinned, she socked him in the arm. His heart tugged every time her musical laugh sounded; all he wanted to do was make her laugh so he could listen to it. Beautiful? Certainly she was - but with a happy smile she became radiant. They chatted as they walked, his ridiculous story having quite thoroughly melted the snow - er, broken the ice.

"I can't see you as a templar," she mused. "You're too..." her hand waved in a vague circle. "Nice."

"Nice? I'm nice?" Alistair clapped a hand over his heart. "Shoot me now, why don't you!"

"What's wrong with being nice?" Marian said with a grin. "Would you rather I say you were like Cousland?"

"Andraste's flaming sword, isn't there any kind of middle ground?"

She pursed her lips, looking him over. "You're... big."

"_Big?_ I'm big. Big. Really?"

"Well, the only other things I know so far are that you were raised by flying dogs, that you have a secret passion for colorful footwear, and you like pillow fights."

"What's not to like about pillow fights? And cheese. I love cheese." Rummaging in his pouch, he pulled out a large square of washburn cheddar wrapped in a piece of muslin, saved from his last trip to Denerim before Ostagar. "Want some?"

She burst into giggles, her eyes squinching shut, and Alistair's breath caught. Ebony hair, tousled from running her fingers through it, glimmered in the afternoon sun. Tiny lines gathered around her eyes where the skin crinkled... Alistair found his thoughts wandering to how she might look in twenty years' time, when life had chiseled those laugh-lines into her skin and time had silvered that gorgeous hair. She wasn't just beautiful - she was _adorable._

Still snickering, she held out her hand. "Why, _yes_, Alistair, I would love some cheese."

He considered, forehead furrowing. "What'll you give me for it?"

"What'll I-" she began, indignant, but then peered at the package as if trying to determine value. "What kind is it?"

"What _kind_ is it? It doesn't matter what kind, it's _cheese!_ The greatest thing to happen to toast, chocolate and apples since - oh, I dunno. Teeth."

"I doubt the toast, chocolate and apples like the idea of being eaten," she snickered. "Now you made me want the damned cheese. Give it to me."

"You haven't offered me anything for it yet!" Alistair waved the cloth-wrapped package under his nose. "Mmmm... yum. I think I'll eat some-"

Marian lunged at him, rogue-quick, her eyes sparkling with challenge. She narrowly missed the bundle in Alistair's hand as his arm shot up and out of her reach. Compared to her tiny self, he _was_ big. As if to illustrate that point, she jumped and hooked her hands around his bicep, and Alistair began to laugh at her as she _climbed_ up the length of his body.

"I didn't realize squirrels like cheese!" He switched her prize to his other hand, grunting when she cuffed the back of his head.

"Squirrel?" she shrieked. "When I get that cheese I'm not giving you a single bite!"

"You have to get it first!" he crowed back at her, his arm stretching further out of reach. Laughing and breathless, she swung one leg around his waist, clambering across his mid-section as she made her way to his other arm. "Watch the feet!" he gasped, suddenly very glad he was wearing splintmail.

"I'm gonna get it-"

"No you're not-"

"I am!"

Marian's laughter mingled with his own, their struggles finally gaining attention as Cousland turned back to witness the absurdity going on behind him. He'd gained quite the lead, but now he stalked back, arriving in time to see Marian clamber onto Alistair's shoulders and claw the cheese from his grasp, dropping back down to the ground with a flourish.

"Oh for the love of - what are you, five?" Cousland snapped. His gaze raked Marian - hair disheveled, jerkin askew, azure eyes glittering as she clutched the wrapping of cheese. Alistair was fairly intact, though his bedroll was rapidly undoing itself and his pack had come open at the top. He smoothed his hair - it was sticking up even more than usual.

"Sorry, sir," Alistair said, affecting a salute. "We were attacked. By... hunger." Marian nodded quickly, her eyebrows rising in a show of innocence.

Cousland stared them down for a moment, then stomped off, clearly not giving two cents for their antics.

"What a prig," Marian muttered, then flipped a nasty gesture in Cousland's direction.

_Marry me_, Alistair thought, his heart doing somersaults. Throwing him a grin, she unwrapped the cheese and broke it in half, her fingers brushing his as she gave over his bit.


	4. Chapter 4: Alistair

**~ Alistair ~**

"There it is. Lothering. Pretty as a painting," Alistair said, spreading his hands in a grand gesture. Marian didn't respond, and he realized she'd been all but silent for several minutes, letting him ramble on in his usual aimless way. He turned to her, a grin spreading his face, the glib comment on the tip of his tongue halted when he caught her expression. Marian looked... tense. Her mouth was tight, eyes set in an apprehensive stare, her head tilted slightly to the side. One hand plucked a rhythm at the bow-string laid across her chest.

"What's the problem?" She said nothing, continuing to contemplate the town, her frosty silence of earlier returning. Time to lighten the mood a bit. "Let me guess. Jerky ex-boyfriend?" He pulled a knife from the pouch on his thigh, flipping it in one hand. "Say the word, I'll kill anyone you like."

That adorable quirk returned to her lip. "That's your eating knife."

"Is it?" He looked at it, affecting surprise. "Damn! Who stole my pearl-handled murdering dagger? I can't kill anyone with this - I need it to butter my bread with." Sighing, he slid the blunted blade back into its case, where it clinked against his other utensils. _I should've pulled out the fork instead,_ he thought when she shook her head at him, shoulders quivering with silent laughter. Bringing that breathtaking smile to her face was his largest goal at the moment.

"Come on," she said suddenly, hooking her hand through his elbow. "My mother and sister are probably cooking. Are you hungry?"

"Are you kidding? After all the walking we did today? I'm wasting away here."

"You look it," she chuckled. "Skin and bones, that's you."

"Is your mother a good cook? You know what? I don't care, I'd even eat _my_ cooking right now."

Smiling widely, she tugged at him, and he followed, thrilling to the touch of her hand. Lothering opened up before them, the epitome of a small country hamlet. His brow furrowed - it had been a few years since he'd been here, the last bit of his templar training having taken him to Denerim, though he'd spent a good many years in Lothering. To think, he'd never met the Hawke family, in all that time... he looked around, paying more attention now. Did small hamlets usually have so many tents and forlorn people? An overgrown field near the stone steps of the Imperial Highway teemed with - refugees? _From the blight,_ Alistair realized, his heart sinking._ It must be spreading faster than we'd suspected._ Anyone with a homestead south of Lothering must have run here - though, Alistair realized, the small town was likely to be the next place destroyed, if the horde continued its northward trend. Its dark corruption tingled just at the edge of his consciousness, setting his teeth on edge. Definitely moving - definitely toward Lothering.

"Marian," he said, his feet slowing. "Is there anywhere your family can go? Away from Lothering, I mean. You shouldn't stay here - not with the horde, not with the battle. Too many bad things can happen."

She slowed as well, realization freezing her face. "I didn't even think of that... I just... I just wanted to get home." Her hand dropped from the crook of his arm, pain carving worry lines into her smooth forehead. "Home isn't a safe place now, is it?"

"No," he agreed. Stepping closer, he took her hand, giving it a squeeze. "Do you need help? I don't know if it would be any better than here, but you could go to Redcliffe - I know some folks there. I'm sure I could arrange for... something..."

Those blue orbs flicked up to lock with his, gratitude shining forth. Her hand squeezed back, the pressure fluttering his heart almost as much as the lopsided smile she gave him. A moment later her fingers slid away, and she squared her shoulders. "We can talk to my mother about it - I don't know where she might want to go. But you're right, we can't stay here - I know that much."

"Sister!"

Marian turned away from him just in time to be bowled over by a slim, dark-haired girl who swept her into a tight, rocking hug. She stood taller than Marian - a match for Carver, actually - with the same dark hair as her siblings, the same curving cheek and vivid Hawke eyes. Marian seemed overwhelmed, but shrugged at Alistair over the girl's shoulder with a small smile as she was exclaimed and fussed over. This must be Bethany, for certain. Alistair stayed back, feeling a touch awkward.

"You're back! Thank the Maker - Mother's been worried sick! Carver's home already - he got here a little while ago, said you were probably just behind. We've been hearing things, just _dreadful_ things about Ostagar, and how many were killed. They say the battle was terrible, that so many died, and oh Marian! They say King Cailan is dead, and that the Wardens killed him! Is it true?"

"Wait, what?" Alistair stepped forward, all awkwardness melting away. "Who's saying the Wardens killed King Cailan?"

The girl hesitated, leaning back out of Marian's embrace to turn apprehensive eyes on Alistair. "I - I'm sorry, who-"

"Bethany, this is Alistair - he's a Grey Warden. He was trained as a templar before he joined the Wardens." Marian's hand clenched her sister's, and Bethany turned to Alistair, her mouth dropping open. Was that... no. For half an instant he'd thought she almost looked... afraid... but then she was all smiles and chatter, reaching out to shake his hand.

"Hello, yes, I'm Bethany, Marian's sister. I'm sorry, you must think me terribly rude, rushing in and just... scooping her up." The words came out in a hurry. Bethany laughed, her fluting voice somewhat higher and sweeter than her sister's pleasant alto. "I haven't seen her in almost two years, you see, and here in Lothering we've been dying for a bit of news about the battle. She and Carver just - up and joined the army, leaving Mother and me to wait at home with all the other helpless women. But - you're a Warden, Marian said? Then you... it can't be true. Marian wouldn't be calmly introducing someone who'd murdered the king!"

Alistair's head was spinning, Bethany's energy and babble combined with the shocking idea that - the Wardens? Killing Cailan?

Alistair attempted to arrange his face into something friendly. "Please, Miss Bethany, a moment. I - I'm afraid I don't understand. You heard something about how... the Wardens killed Cailan?"

Marian cut in. "Bethy, Mother must be waiting for you. Why don't you run back - tell her I'm home, and maybe we can have guests for dinner? I'll be there in just a bit." Marian's eyes were focused and intense, and then Bethany nodded.

"Of course. I apologize. Don't mind me, Ser Alistair - I hope to see you for dinner." She flashed a white smile, then jogged away without a backward glance.

"Sorry," Marian said. "That's... Bethany."

"She's charming," Alistair observed, his gut churning as her words looped through his head. _Wardens killed King Cailan... someone who'd murdered the king..._

"Um, I guess Carver's already home, and Morrigan is... somewhere..." Marian took a step back, eyes darting over the town. "Did you see where Cousland went?"

"There, I thought," Alistair gestured toward what looked to be the tavern - likely, it was the inn as well.

"Makes sense," Marian said. She looked uncomfortable, their happy camaraderie from earlier dashed to bits. "Um, look - that's my house - just there, over the bridge - the one with the green door. You can get a room at the inn, and then when you've cleaned up maybe you'll come for supper? You'd probably like some time to wash, I expect - they've got a really nice tub at the inn, or... there's a lake..." she trailed off, one hand cupping the back of her neck. Eyes slipping shut, she released a heavy breath. "I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me... Come for dinner?"

Alistair nodded. She was flustered. He suspected it was mostly embarrassment over Bethany's prodding questions. Maybe, just _maybe_, it was... something more, as well? It had _seemed_ like they'd really connected, and that it hadn't all been in his head. Wild hope flared in his heart as he realized that she'd actually invited him to dinner. At her house. With her _family_. Wasn't that something usually reserved for, well, good friends at the least?

Mind racing, he said something about seeing her later, and watched as she pulled up her hood and scurried over the bridge. The cloak billowed, her rapidly retreating form weaving unnoticed through those who were busy with errands of their own. His eyes stayed with her until the green door shut, and his footsteps were light as he walked away, whistling a jaunty tune.

The tavern was about what he'd expected; a large common room with a huge fireplace, locals gathered in the low, smoky light. Two stories, though - it spoke of prosperity, a well established business with a good reputation, if it boasted so many rooms. _I guess it _is_ along a major trade route,_ Alistair realized. Cousland was within, arguing with the tavernkeep about a room - apparently, Lothering was bursting at the gills, with nothing to spare. Alistair meandered forward, close enough to listen to the man's words.

"Have you any idea who I am?" Aedan's voice was low and insistent, the two gold sovereigns he held between thumb and forefinger tapping the counter. "Does the name of Cousland mean nothing to you?"

"About as much as the name Theirin," the tavernkeep shrugged. "Okay, you're noble. Congratulations. Bread's two bits, you can have stew for three more. And just as I said before-" he leaned in, his words coming slow and clear, pronounced so Cousland couldn't possibly misunderstand. "-all, of the rooms, are full. If you can find space on the floor tonight, you're welcome to spread your blanket there. Two silver for that."

Aedan's handsome face twisted into an ugly sneer. "Fine. You're passing up good business, but fine - who am I to teach you how to make a living?" He strode to the center of the tavern and called for attention, raising the coins up to glint in the firelight. "Countrymen, it seems the innkeep has run out of rooms. But if anyone should wish to sell me their room, you'll find me not ungrateful." One coin flipped into the air, ringing slightly as it left his fingers, the sound cut off when his hand closed around it again. Instantly, three men clambered forward, offering Cousland the use of their beds. Smirking, he threw a haughty look at the innkeep, who just shrugged and turned back to his other customers, unimpressed with Aedan's machinations.

Alistair made his way to the bar, not bothering to ask about a room - he had money, but not enough to throw around as Aedan was. He did ask about the tub, however. Usually, he was happy enough to make do with any local waterway, but it _was_ winter, and the opportunity for a hot bath was too good to pass up. Plus, he was going to meet Marian's mother, right?

The innkeep told him two others were waiting for the tub, and charged him five coppers for its use - a bargain, as far as Alistair was concerned. He ordered a mug of ale and made his way over to Cousland, content to wait for his bath. The nobleman's coins had bought him ample space at a table, along with a few loaves of crusty bread, a tankard of ale, and a bowl of rich-looking stew. Alistair perched on the edge of the bench opposite, wondering if he dared snag a piece of Aedan's bread.

"Good stew?" Alistair took a sip. The ale was good - an autumn brew, he was willing to bet. With... a taste of apple? Interesting. Perhaps it was a town specialty.

Cousland snorted, dunking a slice of bread thick with butter into his bowl. "Fair. Where do you plan on sleeping?"

Alistair shrugged. "Probably outside." He wondered if he should mention Marian's dinner invitation. If he wanted to be courteous, he supposed he should - though it wasn't his house, nor his right to invite someone else.

"I'd offer you a space on my floor, but it turns out it's all bunks. Sharing the room with five others." Cousland shrugged. "It's a bed. Sorry, if I'd thought of it I suppose I could have gotten us _each_ a bed, but you're used to sleeping on the ground, right?"

"...Right." No way was he inviting the ass to dinner.

Cousland grunted, sopping up more stew, and Alistair finished his ale. Neither spoke again, both content with the ambient noise around them in lieu of conversation.

* * *

Late afternoon was passing into evening when Alistair stepped up to Marian's green door, fresh from his bath and wearing the only clothing he had with him that wasn't meant to go under his armor - homespun trousers and a simple, long-sleeved shirt. Not much could be said for them, other than that they were clean. One hand raised to tap against the wood, then dropped again before any contact was made. Both hands shook themselves out, clenching then unclenching, then rubbed down the front of his pants, fingers spread wide. The hands raked back through his hair, then he muttered a curse as he realized he'd probably stood it on end again, and after a careful combing, too.

_Just..._ _knock_, Alistair thought, and released a shaky breath before his knuckled lifted once more, heart thrumming in wild cadence.

The door flew open, Bethany's bright smile a welcome greeting. "Ser Alistair! Please, come in." She stepped back, and he smiled nervously as he ducked into the cottage.

The interior was warm, a cheery fire burning in the corner hearth. A few threadbare but comfortable looking chairs were ready for curling into, and a large bookshelf set against the wall held numerous tomes. Through an open door, the smell of roast chicken hit his nose, and his stomach promptly began gnawing on itself. He swallowed, hoping to calm his eager digestive system, concentrating instead on the room before him. Someone had knitted a rather lumpy blanket, which was folded neatly and laid over the back of one of the few seats. From a rug set before the fire, a mabari hound stretched and then trotted over, keen interest in the large, liquid eyes.

"Dread, sit," Marian called, and Alistair's eyes lit up as she came through the kitchen door.

The dusty, bloodstained garments had been exchanged for a form-fitting outfit - some sort of thigh-length tunic, belted over tight black pants tucked into sturdy boots. In truth, he barely registered her clothing - Marian might have been wearing a flour sack, and he'd have thought she looked great. She grinned up at him as she knelt by the dog's side, practically dwarfed in its shadow.

"This is my mabari. Dread, meet my friend Alistair."

The dog snuffled his hand, then lifted a paw to shake.

"I think he likes me," Alistair chuckled, taking a knee and sliding his fingers back through Dread's fur, paying special attention to the spot behind the dog's ears. Marian's smile turned his bones to jelly.

"He likes everyone Marian likes," Carver drawled, entering the room with a bowl of something in his hand. "Beth, you did the canning this year? Alistair, come try these peaches."

Dinner began shortly afterward, and it couldn't have been better. Marian's mother Leandra was all smiles and welcome, gracious to a fault. The food was to die for; Alistair couldn't recall the last time he'd had a home-cooked meal. Leandra was attentive to Alistair's plate - she seemed determined that he be pleased with what she called her "simple" table, though he assured her over and over that he was used to much plainer fare. Conversation was lively - what with two of Leandra's children spending two years away she and Bethany were eager to hear about everything they'd been doing. Ostagar didn't come up - perhaps they'd already told Leandra of what had happened. Alistair was content to listen, soaking up the feeling of family that pervaded the very walls of the cottage. Just sitting with them was a treat.

When dinner was over - too soon, in his opinion - the family retreated to the small sitting room with cups of tea. Marian stretched out before the fire with Dread, and Carver took a cross-legged seat nearby. So cozy, all of it, with Leandra asking if there was anything else she could get anyone and Bethany bringing a plate of cookies from the kitchen to be passed around.

Marian would never know what kind of a gift she'd given him - how could she, when she'd had this all her life?

After he'd lingered as long as he felt was proper over his cup of tea and at least half a dozen cookies, Alistair pushed himself out of the plush chair, regretting the evening's end. Thanking them all for a lovely dinner, he shook hands with Carver, then kissed the hands of the ladies, catching Marian's eyes with what he hoped was a significant look.

"See you tomorrow?" he murmured, grinning and squeezing her hand when she nodded, eyes sparkling.

"I'd like that," she said simply, and the family bade him goodnight as they walked him to the door.

The night was crisp, clear, chilled - Alistair's breath plumed in the frosty air. He nipped back to the inn before he lost what inner warmth he'd collected from the Hawke residence, grateful that the winter had been dry with relatively little snow. If he was going to sleep in a field, he'd rather not have to tunnel out his bed.

The innkeep's wife asked him of his plans, and when Alistair told her she insisted that he take a spot on the floor of the tavern. He protested, telling her he had no coin to pay for it, and she patted his cheek, saying only that he reminded her of her son, and to _please_ allow her to provide him with a bed for the night, free of charge. He thought of Cousland, paying ten times the original price for a bed, and couldn't help but chuckle to himself. _Maybe the Maker likes me after all,_ he thought as he settled down.

Since the tavern floor had become a campground, most of the town's drinking had been taken elsewhere, though there was plenty of quiet conversation. The fire was banked, embers glowing, all of it so warm and drowsy that Alistair should have been able to go right to sleep.

There was too much excitement in his blood, however. Dinner at the Hawke residence had just... gone so well! Marian's family was open, warm, friendly - they'd made him feel welcome right away, and the small interactions he and Marian had had throughout the night - a shared smile, a brush of fingers when she passed him a dish, her hand in his as she'd tugged him into the parlor. He'd never felt more alive; sleep was the furthest thing from his ability at the moment.

After tossing and turning for awhile, he flipped the blanket back and sat up. Maybe a walk would cool his blood. Or a sprint. Or a flat out run. One way or another, he intended to exhaust himself enough that sleep wouldn't be so elusive.

Tying his cloak around his neck, he slid a dagger into his boot - just in case - and headed out the door into the chill night. The moon was nearing full, silvering the late-night air. He wandered, his mind so full, the thoughts so beautiful... the future could hold anything. Carver and he were both Wardens - it only seemed natural that once the blight was over, the two of them would return to the Hawke family. Would Marian wait for him? Should he speak to her about it? The idea of declaring himself was both thrilling and frightening. He pictured the scene... what would he say?

There was nothing he could promise her - he couldn't even be sure that he would return. There was a more than even chance that he'd die before the Archdemon was dealt with. Then there was the issue of the shortened lifespan, and children... _I can't give her anything_, Alistair thought, heart sinking. Maybe it would be better to say nothing... but suppose he _did_ live. Didn't he deserve a chance for happiness? Why shouldn't he try and find it with Marian?

The village was quiet, the largest sound being his boots treading the dusty road. Lothering boasted a small lake - perhaps he'd go there, sit for a bit, think more sappy thoughts... they twisted within his head, naggy as a sore tooth. He didn't mind. He was relishing the fact that he _felt_ this way for someone. That there was a chance that this someone might feel the same way for him.

He wandered toward the lake, leaving the village itself behind, his eyes skittering to Marian's home. Through the curtains the lamps were still blazing - likely they were all still awake. They'd probably be up talking for hours yet, catching up after years of being apart. How he wished he could join them.

"You're a murderer."

"They have told me this, yes."

Alistair's attention was snagged by the sound of voices, carried on the breeze. Faint, but clear - he knew that musical tone. _Marian?_

For the first time he noticed the slim cage on the very edge of town. Standing within the bars was the largest man Alistair had ever seen - seven feet, at least, his skin silvery in hue, rows of white braids plaited along his skull. He was shirtless - well muscled, it was plain to see, but absolutely barbaric looking.

"And you feel no regret?"

The giant's face was stony; brooding, a perpetual scowl chiseled into granite. "I regret their deaths."

"But not the fact that you did it." Marian Hawke sat on the ground before the cage. That forest green cloak was gathered around her, joining her with the night. She had yet to notice Alistair. He ducked into the shadow of a nearby doorway, and for the next few minutes he watched in awe as the tiny woman lectured the giant barbarian.

She told him of her family, of the things she'd done in the war. She told him of life in Ferelden, of the harm the blight could do, of her brother and of the Grey Wardens. She told him of the way she'd seen Cailan, crushed to a pulp by an ogre on the battlefield of Ostagar. Of the way Cousland had saved her from the flying boulder.

Alistair waited, hoping she'd find a reason to mention his name. _But then, what have I done that's worthy of being told about? Not much,_ he thought.

"Alistair... he's another Warden," Marian said, and he jumped. "I don't think I've met a man with a kinder heart. He tries to be tough, but he's... nice. A great fighter, though, and really talented with a shield... But, see, there's only the three of them. Against all of the darkspawn, against the Archdemon... so that's where you come in."

"What is it you're doing?" Alistair stepped out of the shadows, his curiosity getting the better of him.

Marian's raven head spun in his direction, eyes widening. One hand came up to swipe her eyes, then she gestured him over. "Sit with me?"

"I thought you'd be in bed," Alistair said as he folded himself beside her.

"Can't sleep," she muttered, studying the ground. The man in the cage said nothing - just watched them, lavender eyes intense with scrutiny. It was decidedly... _creepy_, Alistair thought. What manner of creature had metallic skin, white hair and purpley eyes?

"What's his story?" He lifted his chin at the giant, and Marian told him. Sten - it wasn't really his name, apparently, more like a title, whatever _that _meant - had slaughtered a farmstead, killing men, women and children alike. All because of a lost sword.

Alistair was horrified. Marian only seemed fascinated.

"Why are you here, anyway?" she asked of the giant, curiosity coloring her words.

"I was locked in the cage by your leaders."

"No, I mean in Ferelden."

Sten said nothing, just continued to stare straight ahead, ignoring the small woman who sat before him.

"Ask him a riddle," Alistair whispered, and Marian smacked his chest with the back of her hand.

"I want him to go with you and Carver," she whispered back.

"What? You can't be serious!" _What can she be thinking?_ "You just told me he's a killer! He cut down an entire family - not exactly a stable personality. You want - _that_ - to haunt my sleep? To possibly murder your brother and me both?"

"Shut up. You wouldn't let that happen," she said, brushing his concerns aside like so much dandelion fluff. "You two will need help against the darkspawn... who better than an angry giant?" She stood, brushing her hands against her cloak. "I'll be back tomorrow, Sten... we'll talk more then."

The giant's eyes darted to her, but he said nothing.

"Come on," Marian said suddenly, her small hand slipping into his own. "We need to talk, and I need a drink."

"The tavern's closed," Alistair said, but she shook her head.

"We're not going to the tavern. Just come with me." She tugged him along, urging him into a jog, then a run. The wind whipped across Alistair's face, exhilarating, cold as ice and sending his cloak flapping.

"Marian-" he laughed, feeling a bit breathless, and not because of their sprint.

She ignored him, pulling open the door to a huge, paint-faded barn and yanking him inside. Agile as the squirrel he'd teased her about being, she shimmied up the edge of a dividing wall, disappearing into the hayloft. He was about to call up to her, something about how it was a lovely trick she'd managed, when a rope dropped over the ledge, complete with knots for gripping.

Her raven head poked over the side. "Come, Ser Warden. Join me if you can." A roguish smile lit her face. Alistair needed no further invitation - climb a rope, for the chance to be close to her? Hands burning against the hemp, he managed to pull himself up, tumbling gracelessly into the hay a few moments later. Marian snorted with mirth, having helped him with the last bit of heave over the edge.

"You've got hay in your hair," she said, picking bits of it out with lithe fingertips, her affectionate attention bringing a blush to his cheeks. The light was faint - a lone lamp burned, suspended from a beam. It was plenty warm in here, though, smelling sweetly of hay and the clean odors of healthy farm animals... in fact, Alistair was surprised no one else had snuck in here to sleep.

"Barlin's got the place surrounded with traps," Marian said then, as if reading his mind. "But I'm a fair hand with traps, you see." She leaned forward, a conspiratorial glint in her eye. "I made most of them."

"Really," Alistair said faintly. Marian shrugged, pleased, then her hand delved beneath the hay, coming up with a bottle after a moment of searching.

"Right where I left it," she murmured, brushing straw from the darkened glass. Flipping a slim blade from her belt, she jammed it into the cork and levered it out, then put the bottle to her lips and took a long pull. Alistair's brows lifted as Marian's eyes closed, her enjoyment of the wine clear to see. The bottle lowered at last, and she offered it next to Alistair. He took it, the stray thought that her lips had _just_ been on the rim of the bottle taking center stage. Flushing a little, he sipped, finding it a bit sweet for his tastes, and much, much stronger than he'd expected.

Marian grinned at him as he coughed, the honeyed liquor burning his throat. "They call it ice-wine. Good, right?"

"Fantastic," he rasped, wishing for his waterskin. "It's pretty strong for wine, isn't it?"

She took another long drink, her sinful moan of pleasure doing... strange things to him. "You start with fruit, honey, and hops, and once it's wine you freeze it. Throw out the ice, and this is what's left." The bottle lowered, her head tipping back as she sighed. "I've missed this. It's made by a friend of my mother's."

"May I?" he asked, and she pressed the bottle into his hands again. He tried another sip, more cautious this time, rolling the heavy, sweet liquid over his tongue.

The bottle wasn't large, but even so, he was surprised to find it empty after a bit more sharing and mindless chatter. Marian seemed distracted, her fingers kneading into the hay they sat in, and when she discovered the bottle was empty she fished another out of her hidey-hole.

Alistair chuckled. "How many of those are in there?"

She grinned at him. "Six, I think? Unless Carver got to them first." Her words were a touch slurred, the alcohol playing with her quick reflexes. She didn't seem all that impaired, though, and had no trouble working the cork free.

"You said you wanted to talk," Alistair reminded her after she'd taken another drink.

"You need to take care of my brother," Marian said. Apparently, she needed little prodding - at least, once she loosened up a little. "My mother..." she laughed, but the sound didn't even approach pleasant. "Mother is furious with me."

"Why with you?" Alistair asked, brows furrowing. "It isn't like you pushed him to Join. He was actually really nervous to tell you, you know. Honestly, I was a little angry when I found out he'd done it without telling anyone. I mean, he could've-" he cut himself off. Civilians weren't supposed to know certain things about the Wardens. He'd have to watch it - the wine was loosening his tongue.

Marian threaded her hands back through her midnight hair, gripping the roots. She hunched over crossed legs, the top of her head the only thing visible in the darkness as she clasped the back of her neck. "You missed quite the shouting match. We barely had you out the door when she laid into us both, but me more than him." Eyes shining like fine jewels, she locked gazes with Alistair, mouth twisting as an angry laugh spilled from her lips. "No, I know why she's mad at me. I was supposed to take care of him. Carver and I - we used to dream about being in the Wardens. It was a - a juvenile fantasy. A dream of heroes. He got the chance, and he jumped at it, I guess. I don't think I even blame him... not really." The bottle touched her lips again, long swallows of pain-killing anesthetic gliding down her throat.

Alistair didn't know what to say.

He ended up not saying much - Marian did the talking, confiding in him, telling him about her childhood and the closeness she and Carver had developed over the years. Bethany had always been the baby, she said, the one who needed protecting. They'd moved around quite a bit, though she stopped speaking when this came to light, and questioned Alistair about his own childhood. He kept things as easygoing as possible, telling her mostly about happy memories of Redcliffe - there was enough sadness tonight without him adding to it.

When the third bottle of wine made an appearance, Alistair was tempted to take it from her. She was so _small_ - he knew his own tolerance, and it had gone up considerably since he'd become a Warden. Something about his metabolism made it difficult to get drunk; he just burned through the alcohol too quickly. But this stuff had _him_ buzzed, and Marian had drunk twice as much as he. If she had any more, he saw two potential outcomes - violent illness, or a three-day hangover. Possibly both.

"I just... I miss my father," she mumbled. Somewhere during the second bottle her cloak had been tossed aside, and now she flopped back into the hay, ebony head making a striking contrast to the golden straw. Her eyes darted, then stilled, a deep breath escaping her. "You know, all I've ever done is take care of people. It's _all _I do. I take care of my mother, I take care of Bethany, I even take care of Carver. Father - he _told_ me to. And it was hard, Alistair! It was so... so hard, at first. And do you know how hard I worked to learn that bow?"

"Really hard?" Alistair suggested. In a moment of extreme daring, he scooted close and stretched out beside her, pillowing his head on his arm. The ceiling wasn't all that interesting, but he studied it nonetheless - it's what she was doing, as well.

"Really, really hard," she agreed, her words somewhat thick. "It takes _years_ to get good with a weapon like that. Years, do you hear me? And I bled. My hands - it _hurt._" She sounded frustrated - petulant, a child who needed comforting.

Alistair nodded, chancing to turn his head. They were so _close_. It was already warm in the barn, but she was a living flame, mere inches and a bit of cloth the only things separating him from the radiating heat of her body. Guilt assaulted him for thinking such base thoughts, and he flushed a bit, embarrassed. She continued to stare at the thatched ceiling, oblivious to his attention, her shadowed profile mesmerising him as a list of frustrations poured from her lips.

"Promise me," she said suddenly. She rolled, propping on her side, lifting up on one elbow. He sat up as well, mirroring her position. She didn't continue, just studied his face, sapphire eyes searching for something in his own.

"Anything," he murmured.

"Take care of Carver," she begged. "Don't let him die. I don't... I've already lost my father. I can't lose someone else."

Alistair hesitated. Such a promise... could he, in good conscience, guarantee her brother's life? Who knew where the blight would take them, what they might have to face. "If you promise me something in return," he said at last.

"What?" she asked, suspicion denting the spot above her nose.

With a breath for courage, Alistair scooped her hand into his own, lacing their fingers. "Leave Lothering," he begged. "It isn't safe. I'll talk with your mother about it if you want - tomorrow. But don't stay, Marian. Take Bethany and Dread and your mother, and _run_." Dare he kiss those fingers? No, not quite. His heart was practically leaping from his chest as it was, the wine burning out of his system with the aid of adrenaline, his head growing more clear by the moment. "I want to know you'll be alright. Make me that promise."

"I promise," she whispered. "Now you."

He tightened his clasp. This wasn't a formal commitment - not even close. He had yet to even bring up words of love, but the moment felt so powerful, so _right_. It was the closest he'd come to a romantic encounter - ever. Her face, so sweet and serious, so close to his own, their hands entwined. It was as if there were no one else but the two of them in the whole world...

"I'll keep him alive. I promise," he whispered. _And I'll come back as well,_ he vowed silently. _When this is over, I promise you, I'll come back._

"Thank you," she murmured, giving his hand a squeeze. Another second, and she slid her fingers away, a sheepish smile tugging at her lips. "Sorry... I didn't mean to get all intense on you. You must think I'm pretty silly."

"You? Nah," he grinned, regretting only a little that the moment had been broken.

"You're a good friend," she said softly. "I'm glad we met, Alistair."

"I am too," he agreed, then inspected her, wondering just how drunk she was. He was inwardly wincing at the idea that she might not remember the moment they'd had - he knew he'd never, _ever_ forget the moment, or the look in her eyes. "How's your head?"

"Mmm. A little... heavy," she chuckled, then yawned. "I don't want to go back to my house... 'spose I should though." She curled down into the hay, snuggling herself in, her actions at complete odds with her words. Maker, but she was adorable. It wouldn't be difficult to lay back beside her, fall asleep next to Marian, dream of the life they might have after the blight was ended...

"I... should go," Alistair uttered, and began looking for the rope down out of the hayloft. "Make sure someone hasn't stolen my blanket back at the inn."

"If you're going, I'm going, too. I'm gonna have to go home sometime," she sighed, and pushed to her feet. She lurched, and Alistair grabbed for her hand, helping her sit down again. A throaty laugh tumbled from her throat as one hand pressed to her forehead. "Um... wow," she laughed. "Yeah. I'm drunk."

"Couldn't feel it til you tried to walk?" he suggested, amused. "Well then. I suppose we'll have to stay here until you can climb down."

"You need to get back, though-" she objected, but stopped protesting a moment later when he snagged her cloak and spread it over her, helping her settle back into the hay once more. He took up his former position at her side, wishing he had the gumption to take her hand again. But alas, both her arms were beneath the cloak, with only her chin pointing out.

"I'll stay awake," he promised. "You sleep for an hour - then we'll both go."

"It's... nice in here," she admitted, her words stumbling into each other. "Warm. And... you're nice." She yawned, then curled herself into a ball, not quite cuddling with him, but close. Alistair startled at how close she'd come, trying to decide what to do. Put an arm around her? Move back? Hold still? He was an agony of indecision.

A moment later, when she still hadn't moved, he whispered her name. "Marian."

No response.

Swallowing, heart thumping, he curved one arm around her, then leaned in to kiss her forehead.


	5. Chapter 5: Alistair

**~ Alistair ~**

"Scrounge up some coin for the floor, did you?"

Alistair dragged hands over his tired face, peeking through his fingers at Cousland. The prick towered over him, hands on his hips, smirking.

"Something like that," Alistair mumbled, then pushed the blanket back and rolled himself into a kneel, stretching as he went. Used to sleeping on the ground he might be, but a field was different than planking, and now he was stiff as the boards he'd slept on. He'd ended up passing out beside Marian, but had woken in a panic after only a few hours. Relieved to discover it wasn't yet morning, he'd managed to get her home and himself back to the inn without too much fuss. Minus the setting off of two of Barlin's traps, but his boots had been through worse.

"We should get going," Cousland continued, ignoring some of the dirty looks the other patrons were giving him. "No reason to stay, right?"

"Can we talk about this after breakfast?" Alistair queried, fingernails scratching through his short hair. A dull headache pounded between his ears, and his mouth felt woolen and sticky. He wondered how Marian was feeling this morning.

"Fine. But we're gone by afternoon at the latest. Sooner if possible," Cousland warned, and tramped away. Alistair stuck his tongue out at the man, and rolled up his blanket.

A quick wash and a plate of eggs and he felt prepared to face the day. Cousland suggested they take the opportunity to resupply, and put Alistair in charge of the shopping. After some argument, he coaxed a handful of sovereigns from the man, pointing out that he had almost no money of his own.

"I want what's left," Cousland warned him, then sauntered off to do... whatever it was he planned on doing. Alistair resisted the urge to mimic the gesture Marian had thrown at his back the previous day, and went off in search of supplies.

The merchant was charging exorbitant prices, but he managed to talk him down and loaded up on jerky and dried fruit, along with a smallish bag of flour. Carver had mentioned something about "camp-bread", so he was hoping the lad could vary their meals a bit. With hunting, it should do until they found the next town. Winter wasn't a bountiful time, though... he shivered, thinking of how much Grey Wardens had to eat. Maybe Cousland would offer to find a hibernating bear in its den. Better yet, maybe the bear would kill him, and leave only two Wardens who needed feeding.

"You're up early," a male voice said from behind him. Alistair turned; Carver Hawke stood behind him.

"It's not that early, is it?" Alistair peered at the sun, which was halfway to the noon mark. "Hey, thanks again for dinner. I had a really nice time."

Carver shrugged. "Marian's idea. You should thank her."

"I will," Alistair said, then accepted the wrapped bundle the merchant handed him, holding it up for Carver's inspection. "Supplies."

"Ahh."

A distinctly chilly vibe was emanating from his fellow Warden, and Alistair shifted, Carver's stiff body language making him uneasy. He stepped away from the wagon to make way for the next customer, hoping the merchant wouldn't gouge them too badly.

"Where did you and Marian go last night?"

_Oh._

Carver didn't look mad, not exactly, but it wasn't open friendliness he exuded. His arms folded over his chest, his young face closed off and tense. "She ran off after you left, and then came stumbling in the door before dawn. It was you with her, wasn't it? You're not the stealthiest person ever, Alistair. Mother has no idea she was even gone, I think, but Bethany and I heard everything."

Alistair was at a loss. He'd never considered the fact that her family would wonder where she'd run to... _comes of never having a family, or someone who cared where I was, I guess_. "Uh - nothing happened, I promise. I couldn't sleep so I went for a walk, and when I saw her she was sitting outside Sten's cage-"

"Sten?"

"The prisoner. The one just outside town. She was talking to him - telling him all kinds of things. So then she dragged me off to this barn, saying she wanted to talk, and... and that's all that happened, I swear." Alistair slowed, wondering if the truth was really his best option. Tell Carver that he'd fallen asleep next to Marian, after helping her drink most of three bottles of wine?

"Barlin's barn?" Carver asked, his voice sharp.

"Um, she did say something about Barlin."

Carver shook his head, looking a touch amused now. "That was always the place she and I ran to when we had to get away from Mother. Did she delve into our stash?"

"Three bottles," Alistair muttered.

Carver snorted. "No wonder she isn't up yet. You let her drink that much?"

"She was pretty upset," Alistair said quickly. "And - it isn't as if I was really in control of the situation-"

Carver sighed. "No, Marian wouldn't have put up with someone trying to stop her. Three bottles, though... wow. How are you even walking?"

"Grey Warden thing," Alistair shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. "I _do_ have a headache, if that's any consolation. I don't think I've gotten that drunk since Griegor from the Anderfels challenged us all to a drinking contest."

"Hmm." Carver appraised him, eyes flicking up and down his frame. "You like her, don't you."

"I..." Alistair stammered, mind racing. "She's... it's..."

"Andraste's tits, it's okay," Carver chuckled. "Maker knows she could do worse."

"Uh... thanks?" Alistair said, following Carver as he approached another stall in the small market. He purchased a few packets of herbs, then gestured for Alistair to fall in.

"For Marian," he said, holding up the twists of paper. "Hangover cure." They walked in silence for another few moments, drawing close to the Hawke bungalow. Carver halted, turning to look at his fellow. "Look. I want to make sure this isn't some kind of... roll into town, bed a pretty girl and roll back out again. If you were Cousland I'd punch you in the nose without asking, but you seem like a nice guy, Alistair."

"Oh Maker, it was nothing like that. We just talked, I'd never... I mean, I haven't - that is, oh Maker this is embarrassing," Alistair muttered, one hand combing back through his hair. He took a deep breath, attempting to organize his whirling thoughts. "I... yes. I really like your sister. And when things are done, I'd like to come back and see if I can... offer her a life." His eyes flicked to Carver. This didn't meet with disapproval, so Alistair mustered the rest of his courage and continued. "But right now - I... we haven't even talked about this, I have no idea if she even feels the same way about me. But I don't know if I'll be alive a year from now, I can't promise her anything. So... I haven't mentioned it. And Carver, I promise you - _nothing happened_."

Carver pursed his lips, then nodded. "I guess I don't really care what went on last night," he said, drawing another round of protest from Alistair. He held up a hand, halting the flow of words. "She's my big sister, and she's old enough to make her own choices. But hear this - hurt her, and I will end you."

There wasn't a doubt in his mind that Carver would do _exactly_ that.

"Understood," Alistair said. All things considered, he felt he'd gotten off easy, though he was certain his cheeks were crimson.

Carver gave him another searching look, then clapped him on the back with a grin. "She'd probably like it if you came in and sat on the edge of her bed. Wait here a moment, will you?"

"Sure," Alistair said, and Carver disappeared into the cottage, calling him in just a moment later. Bethany and Leandra greeted him, warm as they'd been the evening before, but knowing now how Leandra had torn into Marian about Carver he was a bit more reserved.

Carver gestured, leading him through the parlor to a bedroom, where a small form was huddled under the covers. Beside the bed, Dread's tail thumped against the floorboards. Carver shot Alistair a wry look, then walked to the window and yanked the curtains back, flooding the room with sunshine. Alistair winced at the sudden brightness, wondering if he'd be able to steal a sip of that tea for himself.

"I hate you," Marian's muffled voice whimpered. "I really, really hate you, Carver."

"Don't be such a baby," Carver scoffed. "I got your tea. Mother thinks you've got a stomach bug. And I brought you some company."

A black mop peeked out from the blanket, followed by Marian's rumpled face. Her hair stuck out, and she wore the clothing she'd fallen down in the night before, her cloak thrown across the end of the bed just where Alistair had laid it when he'd tucked her in. She squinted, holding up a hand to block the light, then groaned when she spotted Alistair.

"You _would_ see me like this," she grumbled, but sat up, combing her fingers through her hair. "Carver, don't you know you're not supposed to let strange men into my bedroom?"

"He followed me," Carver grinned. "It was pathetic - he was whining and everything."

"I'm not that strange," Alistair protested. "And I only whined a little."

"I think you're strange," Marian teased, then hissed and pressed her hands over her eyes. "Seriously, Carver-"

"Tea. Right." Carver left, and Alistair lowered himself to sit on the bed, doing his best not to disturb her too much. She shifted over, making room.

"Is it bad?" he asked, feeling guilty for not trying harder to stop her.

"I'm dying," she groaned, keeping her face covered. "Come to my funeral?"

"I'll give the eulogy," he offered. "Here lies Marian Hawke, survived by her strange friend Alistair, who should have done _something_ to stop her mad consumption of three bottles of ice-wine-"

"Three?" Marian peeked at him through her fingers. "I can't believe I'm alive."

"Well, I helped. Some," he said. "I do feel badly, though. Sorry I didn't take the bottle out of your hands."

"I'd probably have socked you," she admitted. "Have you ever just... needed to get drunk?"

"...not in my memory, no."

"Lucky," she muttered. They sat in silence for another moment before Carver brought in two mugs of tea, and any further conversation was halted by Marian's need to cure a massive hangover. Alistair sneaked a few sips out of one of the cups, his head still pounding more than he liked.

"Marian... do you remember last night?" Alistair asked, concerned. It was burned into his brain, every moment in the hayloft. Today her manner was so casual and friendly - there was none of the connection from the evening before. Had he imagined the whole thing?

"Not really," she sighed. "Ice-wine does that to me. It's been my go-to for forgetting for awhile."

His heart sank, and he focused on the pattern of her quilt.

Perhaps she saw his look of disappointment, for she lowered her head, doing her best to catch his eye. "I remember you were there, though," she smiled. "I remember us talking - not really what it was about, but I do know you were there for me. And I remember you getting me home. Thank you, by the way." She reached for his hand, a warm smile on her face. "You're a good friend. I'm glad we met."

"You said that last night," Alistair said with a lopsided tug of his mouth.

"It's still true," Marian said simply. The touch of her fingers was enough to melt his heart.

* * *

Alistair hurried back to the tavern. His visit with Marian had gone a bit longer than he'd intended, and Cousland had mentioned wanting to leave as soon as possible. Carver had promised to meet him there after saying his own goodbyes.

He hadn't been quite sure what to say to Marian, so once again, he hadn't said much. There was plenty more casual talking and joking, and then he'd spoken to Leandra about the family's safety. She'd been quite worried when he told her of the closeness of the horde, and he'd achieved her promise that the family would go to Kirkwall; it seemed Leandra had relatives there. Alistair was just relieved they were getting out of town. Kirkwall would keep them safe enough until he could come and find them. Soon, Maker willing.

_You're a coward, Alistair,_ he thought to himself as he left the house. Marian had come out of her room as he'd finished speaking to Leandra, and said goodbye to him there. It had all felt so awkward... he'd hoped for a private moment with her, but it simply hadn't played out that way. _And now you're going. Damn it! Go back, go back and tell her how you feel, turn around, go back, you worthless fraidy-cat..._

A few moments later he pushed the door to the tavern open, angry at himself for losing his chance. _Now we'll leave, and she'll never know, and it's all my own fault._

"Alistair!"

Cousland sat by the fire, a lovely young woman wearing Chantry robes at his side. Even sitting, he could tell she was tall, but so delicate-seeming that the robes looked entirely out of place on her lithe body. A glass of burgundy wine was held in her graceful fingers, red-hair shining like sunset. Full, lustrous lips were wide and smiling at something Aedan was saying.

"Join us, my friend," Aedan said heartily, and Alistair was tempted to look behind him to see who Cousland might have been talking to. Cousland had _never_ said something nice to him, had certainly never called him 'friend'. "This is Leliana," he continued as Alistair made his way over and sat beside them. "Please, let me buy you a tankard. Ale? Mead?"

"Uh...ale," Alistair said. Aedan was all smiles, nodding and agreeable as he went to the bar to fetch Alistair a drink.

"Your fellow Warden was telling me all about you," the girl - Leliana - said, a twinkle in her eye. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance." That accent... Orlesian? Whoever she was, she hadn't been raised in Lothering. She held out her hand, and Alistair shook it - there was wiry strength in her grip, similar to Marian's.

"Are you an archer?" Alistair asked, and Leliana startled.

"Why would you ask me that?" she chuckled, raising her wine glass to her lips. "I'm an initiate of the Chantry."

"Your hands - they feel like... someone else's," Alistair said. "Someone who's an archer."

Leliana peered at him over the rim of her wine glass, her soft blue eyes hardening.

"Here we are, ale for Alistair," Aedan sang, sitting beside Leliana once more. "What are we talking about?"

"Nothing," Leliana dismissed, her voice light and playful. "We were just introducing ourselves."

Alistair narrowed his eyes at the beautiful woman seated before them. She was hiding something - he was sure of it. Suddenly, he recalled Bethany's words of the day before, about how _they_ were saying the Wardens had killed Cailan. Who were 'they'? And more importantly, was Leliana one of 'them'?

"Aedan, you said we need to be going, didn't you?" Alistair asked, his fingers wrapping around the mug of ale. "Yes, I remember quite clearly - we're gone by afternoon, those were your words, right?"

"Is that what I said?" Aedan chuckled, his voice silky. "I'm sure you misheard me. Tomorrow afternoon, that's what I said."

"No, it was definitely-"

"Excuse us, Leliana," Aedan said, his handsome face smiling. One hand gripped Alistair's arm as he led his fellow across the room.

"We're leaving tomorrow," Cousland muttered. "I know what I said. Plans change."

"For a woman?" Alistair asked, incredulous. "She belongs to the Chantry! It isn't like she'll sleep with you. I was raised among those woman - trust me on this one."

"Give me a day," Cousland smirked. "I'll have her out of those robes and on her back. Five sovereigns says so."

"You're twisted," Alistair spat.

"You doubt me?" Cousland leaned forward. "Ever seen a redhead... downstairs?"

"Maker's breath, _please _stop talking."

"Well worth the effort, my friend. You'll wish you were me come tomorrow." Cousland snatched the tankard of ale away and drained it, wiping his mouth and shoving it back into Alistair's hand a moment later. "Go keep yourself busy. We'll leave tomorrow. Or maybe the next day, if she's good."

With those words, Aedan sauntered back to Leliana. She smiled in welcome, completely charmed by his fine manners.

"He's a snake," Alistair said, flabbergasted at the man's ability to be two completely different people. "A reptile. A wolf in sheep's clothing."

"Who is?" Carver stepped up behind him. "Hey, who's Cousland talking to?"

"Someone who has no idea what's coming to her," Alistair sighed. "Leliana, I think her name was."

"Oh! Sister Leliana. She's sweet. Did you talk to her?"

"Uh... no," Alistair said. "You know her?"

"Sure," Carver said. "I didn't recognize her - her hair's longer. She and Marian used to train together. Archery. She's really good, but she never really liked admitting to it. The Revered Mother doesn't approve. She showed up in Lothering a few years ago, not too much before we left with the army, actually. A year, maybe?"

"She's been here for a few years?" _So much for instinct,_ Alistair thought. _But Cousland's still an ass._

"Yup. Just showed up one day and joined the Chantry. Why's she talking to Cousland?"

"I dunno," Alistair said, wanting to be anywhere else. "But he says we're not leaving til tomorrow."

"Who put _him_ in charge, anyway? Aren't you supposed to be our leader?" Carver complained. _Good question_, Alistair thought. "I need to go meet Morrigan. She thinks we're on our way out of town."

"So the witch is still coming with us," Alistair commented, even more glum now. "Great."

Carver chuckled. "She's not so bad. Come on - after I find Morrigan, we can spar."

With nothing better to do, Alistair followed Carver out of the tavern, trying not to think of the innocent Chantry maiden Cousland was dead-set on deflowering.

* * *

On the way out of Lothering to find Morrigan, Carver slowed and pointed. "I'll be damned," he whispered. "There she is."

Marian sat on the ground in front of Sten's cage, words overflowing from her like an overfull cup.

"Told you," Alistair said, pleased to have been proved right.

"Marian," Carver called, and she snapped her head around and pushed to her feet.

"You're going now?" she asked, apprehension written on her face.

"Actually... no," Carver said. "Cousland found something he was interested in, and so we're staying til he's done."

Marian cocked a brow. "He's the one calling the shots?"

Carver shrugged.

Alistair ran a hand over his hair, the wheels in his head spinning. In truth, he could have insisted that they leave - pulled the Senior Warden card and forced Aedan into submission. If it had come to it, he knew himself to be a better swordsman, and though he'd rarely gotten in fistfights he was confident he could hold his own. But the chance to get in more time with Marian had appealed too much. Deep down, he knew it was the real reason he hadn't challenged Cousland. _Say something,_ he thought. _For the love of all that's holy, don't screw this up again!_

"I think you talked him into it," he blurted, reverting to what he did best. "You must not have wanted me to leave. You know, Marian, if you wanted more time with me, you could have just asked. I might have been persuaded to put off the blight, if you'd only said please. You're so pushy."

Marian guffawed and crossed her arms, eyeing him with equal parts amusement and disbelief.

Carver snickered, then backed away, saying something about an errand in the woods, and he was gone.

"I'm pushy."

"As a bronto," Alistair continued blithely. "Next thing I know, you'll be making me have lunch with you. And then dinner. And possibly take a walk under the stars."

The brow cocked again. "And supposing I had other plans today?"

"You'll cancel them," Alistair said, enjoying the small bit of silliness they were indulging in. "You just can't stand the thought of missing any time with me."

"Is that so," Marian chuckled. "I had _planned_ to have lunch with Bethany. She wanted to gather herbs, and asked me to come along and watch over her."

"Sounds perfect. I'd love to come," Alistair grinned.

Marian's mouth curved, the edge of her white teeth tucking against rose-petal lips. A chuckle vibrated through her as she shook her head. "Fine. Get your sword, Warden. You can watch for darkspawn."

"Fear not, fair lady," Alistair said, sweeping her hand into his own and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "You shall be as safe as a bug on a nug in a rug."

Marian snorted. "Whatever, just come on." She was still laughing as they headed back to her home to fetch her sister.

* * *

_A/N: Lothering just doesn't want to end! *agony* In truth, I'm loving this. LOVING. THIS. Seriously though, one more chapter in Lothering, *then* we get to the blight! You believe me, right? *shifty eyes*_

_Thanks to Jaden Anderson for her beta and words of encouragement! I think the two of us are having way more fun than should be allowed... these stories are starting to take on a life of their own. _

_Don't forget to review! :-)_


	6. Chapter 6: Alistair

**~ Alistair ~**

Alistair piled wood shavings and a bit of fibrous plant fluff beneath the teepee he'd built of a few sticks, and struck his flint and steel. Marian watched in silence, her arms crossed over her knees, hugged against her chest.

The moon shone clear and bright overhead, the trees casting splotchy shadows on their small clearing in the woods. It was late enough that the residual heat of the day had burned off in the wake of the darkness. They weren't far from Lothering - just enough that the noises of the town couldn't be heard. All was quiet, the wintry evening as still as calm water. Alistair's breath fogged, evidence of the frigid chill in the air. Maker, but it was _cold!_

"Are you sure you want to be out here?" he asked, turning to Marian.

"I don't want to be at home right now," she said, sounding certain. "Mother's moaning and groaning about Carver, and... I just can't."

The flames caught, licking at the sticks with ravenous hunger. They'd piled up enough to last a few hours at least, Alistair figured, and so with the fire established he sat back to warm his hands. Across the way, Marian tilted forward, her face reflecting the golden light as she sighed into the heat.

"What were we talking about?" Alistair asked. Marian delved into the basket Bethany had packed for them, coming up with a small pot and a pack of tea leaves.

"I forget," she grinned as she filled the pot with water from a skin. "Something terribly important, no doubt."

Alistair rummaged through the basket for teacups. Bethany had slipped two slices of cake in there as well, along with ham, cheese and bread. She'd been quite amused by Carver's newly found appetite, but when she'd realized Alistair was just as bottomless, she'd insisted on handling their picnic basket. The girl was more than charming, in his opinion - she'd make someone a lovely home someday, without doubt. If Marian hadn't captured his heart from the beginning, he might have found himself attracted to the youngest Hawke sister.

Marian knelt before the campfire, attending to the heating water with single-minded concentration. She wore her belted tunic and jerkin with form-fitting leggings - almost the same outfit she'd worn yesterday. Was there no variety to her wardrobe? Her sturdy boots were as worn as his own, and likely just as comfortable. Bethany wore boots as well, but that was just common sense in Ferelden. There was so much mud, anything more delicate would be ruined in moments. And yet, Bethany's footwear and clothing were more... traditionally feminine, Alistair thought. She wore her hair long, flowing in gentle waves over her shoulders. Marian's was short, almost ragged. _But I like it,_ Alistair thought. The cut of Bethany's tunic showed off a slender waist and curving hips. The dip of her blouse displayed a touch of cleavage. Marian's clothing might have come from army supply, so unisex and understated it was. _She doesn't need anything fancier_, Alistair thought. _Maker, she's gorgeous. But imagine what she'd look like in something that suited her a bit more._

"What will you do in Kirkwall?"

Marian shrugged. "Mother says her parents were nobility. Her brother - my uncle, I guess - lives in the estate she grew up in. I suppose we'll live there." She seemed less than interested in the subject.

"Being nobility doesn't appeal?" Alistair teased. "You could wear dresses, be demanding, have breakfast in bed every day."

Marian chuckled. "You may have just described my biggest nightmare. Except for the breakfast in bed. That I could live with."

"Did you ever have long hair?" Alistair asked, wondering at her comment. Wearing dresses, a nightmare? Didn't girls like that sort of thing?

"Never," she answered. "It gets to my shoulders at the most before I can't stand it."

Well, it only made sense, Alistair supposed. Long hair could certainly be troublesome. Some of his fellow templar trainees chose to wear their hair long, and he'd seen the struggles with tangling. Recruits had been "encouraged" to keep their hair short, though as long as they were presentable for muster it wasn't enforced. Alistair had found it easier to just keep his own locks shorn. He rubbed the back of his head - it was longer now than he liked. Curling strands tickled his neck whenever he turned his head - definitely too long. He'd have to be sure and cut it soon.

"I think you'd be lovely with long hair," Alistair offered, feeling bold. After spending most of the day together, he was about as comfortable as he was likely to get. Why not try a compliment?

She snorted. "We'll never find out, I guarantee it."

Well, that hadn't worked. Marian handed him his tea, and he molded chilled fingers around the cup. She huddled into her cloak, her steaming mug held close to her lips.

Things were silent for a time as they sipped, absorbing what warmth they could. Alistair wished he dared make some sort of gallant gesture, like offering to sit together and combine their body warmth, but Marian looked so closed off he couldn't bring himself to speak the words, much less simply enact the movements. He remained where he was, trying to think of something else to say.

"So," he said at last. "All this time we've spent together-"

"All this time?" she interrupted with a short laugh. "It's been, what, two days?"

"Almost every minute of two days," he pointed out, then hesitated. "Will you miss it, when Carver and I leave?"

"Will I miss you, you mean?" Marian teased, and his heart leapt. Was he really so transparent? But her answer made the question worthwhile. "Of course I will. I've had a lot of fun with you... you make it easy to... just be me. And you have to come back," she said sternly. "You and Carver both."

"You couldn't keep me away if you tried," he promised, hoping she would take his meaning. Maker, but this was _hard_. So much he wanted to say, so much he _couldn't _say, either because of nerves or the fact that he just plain couldn't promise anything.

Words escaped them both again, the only sound the fire snapping. Marian asked him then about why their leavetaking had been delayed, and Alistair told her about Cousland and Sister Leliana. Marian seemed surprised, agreeing with Alistair's assessment - Sister Leliana was a Chantry initiate, which made her untouchable. How depraved _was_ the man?

"Actually..." Marian's brow furrowed. "I think... she might just be a lay sister."

"Ah... okay, well, then I guess he has a _chance_," Alistair grumbled. It still seemed wrong to him.

"Alistair," she said suddenly. "You grew up in the Chantry, right?"

"Right," he replied.

"So, does that mean you've never..." she trailed off, sapphire eyes glittering with fun.

_Oh, Maker._ How did people always manage to pick up on this? Peter had spent a full week teasing him, threatening to find a camp follower and plant her in Alistair's tent one night when he was least expecting it. Carver didn't know yet, but... for goodness' sake, was it written across his forehead?

"Why does it matter?" he muttered, uncomfortable.

"It's just cute," she giggled. "How old are you?"

"How old do I look?" he countered, feeling somewhat annoyed.

"My age," she replied. "Old enough to have done it, but young enough that maybe it just hasn't happened yet."

He blinked, taken aback. This was the first time someone had told him it was _okay_ to be a virgin. Sex was so casual for some. And no one seemed to take into account that being raised in a chantry afforded one precious few opportunities for libidinous behavior. "I'm not even sure what you're talking about," he deadpanned, taking another sip of tea.

"Yes you do," she grinned. "You're turning beet red."

"Am not. _You_ are."

"Liar."

"I'm not red. I'm sitting by the fire."

"Shut up, you're so cute," Marian said, looking like a cat who'd found a bowl of cream. "I think it's... sweet. Not many men would admit to that." She brought her cup to her lips. "Carver's still a virgin, too."

"Does that mean you're not?"

"Alistair! So direct," she grinned. "Do you ask every woman you meet about her virtue?"

"Oh, so _that's_ what we're talking about..." Alistair said, affecting sudden understanding. "I thought it was either never seen a basilisk, or never licked a lamppost in winter."

"Oh, I've done that," Marian said offhandedly. "Basilisks? They're a dime a dozen."

"And how about the lamppost?" Alistair said, dragging the words over his tongue. "Ever licked a lamppost in winter?" The innuendo was bold, but he was dying to know.

"Have you?" she challenged, eyes sparkling over the rim of her cup.

"I, myself? Never had the... pleasure..." he drawled, finding the conversation far more entertaining than he'd thought it would be.

"There's one in the village," Marian grinned. "We could go do it right now."

"No thanks," Alistair said. "One of the initiates tried it once, and there was laughing, and... oh, the humanity," he groaned, melodramatic. His tea was out, so he poured another cup, refilling Marian's for her as well.

"So, tell me something else," Marian said, leaning forward. "Something... secret. A deep, dark secret... something you've never admitted to another soul."

"You mean, besides the fact that I'm a virgin?" Alistair raised a brow. "That isn't big enough for you?"

"That's not a dark secret," Marian scoffed.

Alistair hesitated. He _did _have a secret - one that was about as deep and dark as someone could hope for. _Marian, I'm the son of King Maric. Surprise!_ No, definitely not.

"Tell me about your first kiss," Marian ordered him, sipping her tea.

"Ahhh... um."

"You've never even kissed a girl?" Marian squealed.

"I didn't say that!"

"Maker, Alistair, you're precious," she grinned.

"I'm just... waiting for the right girl," he choked out, thankful that it was dark. If he hadn't been beet red before, he most certainly was now. "What about you? Tell me about _your_ first kiss."

Marian sobered almost immediately, turning back into her cup.

"Oh, come on," he prodded. "You're the expert, right? Give me some tips. You know, for when I find someone worth kissing." _Or when I get the courage to sit beside you, put my arm around you, draw you in..._

She still said nothing, looking far away, somehow having curved herself into an even smaller ball.

"It was terrible, wasn't it?" he said. "Awkward, messy, and he probably drooled all over you."

"Um... no," Marian shook her head slightly, then chuckled. "Deep dark secrets, right?"

"Andraste's sword, now I _have_ to hear this," Alistair chuckled. Taking his courage by the hand, he stood and rounded the fire, settling himself down close beside her. She shifted, making room, smiling at him in that warm, friendly way he loved so much. He tugged his cloak over his shoulders, considering opening one side of it and inviting her in... _one step at a time_, he thought.

"Well... it was a few years ago. I was out in the woods, and there was this mage."

"A mage in the woods. So an apostate?"

"I... suppose," she said. "He had the templars after him. I helped him climb up a tree with me, and then I distracted the templars with my bow."

Alistair cocked a brow. "You helped a mage escape the templars."

"That isn't the point of the story," she said, exasperated, then shook her head. "You know what? Forget it."

"No, I'm sorry, Marian. Please? Tell me?"

Her eyes flicked sideways, judging how serious he was about listening. He arranged his face in the best, most earnest friend-who-is-listening expression he could manage.

"Tell me one first," she said. "Tell me _why_ you're still a virgin."

He groaned. "As if it wasn't obvious."

"It's not," she countered. "I mean, look at you." One hand waved up and down, indicating his whole being. "You're... well..."

"Exactly," he said. "Not very much of anything." He turned away, discouraged.

"That _isn't_ what I meant," she insisted. "Handsome, sweet, kind - sorta brutish, maybe, but..." she winked. "Funny..."

"Yeah. Ha-ha, I'm hilarious," Alistair sighed.

"You are," Marian agreed. "I like that you make me laugh. So why hasn't some girl snuck into your room at night and had her way with you?"

"Would _you_ sneak into the chantry to defile a templar recruit?" Alistair pointed out.

She pursed her lips, thinking. "Are we talking about any recruit, or one in particular?"

_Maker,_ he thought, swallowing. "Um... your choice of recruit."

She chuckled. "Well, the only one I might want _isn't_ a templar recruit, so this conversation is pointless."

Every nerve in his body ignited. His very skin seemed alive with electricity as he watched her set down her tea, then dig in the basket and retrieve sandwich materials. Why was she making food _now_? If there was a better lead in for a kiss he couldn't think of it.

"Marian," he began, hoping to find the words. "I've come to... that is, I -"

"What?" she said, her head lifting. "Sorry, real quick - Do you want ham with your cheese? I assume you _do _want a sandwich?"

"Um... yes." His courage fled. She settled back beside him a moment later, pressing his cheese-and-ham sandwich into his hands.

"So you just never got the chance," she finished.

"Never," he agreed. "But - it isn't just that. A lot of the recruits found ways to - you know, there are - um, there are women who-"

"Brothels. Sure," Marian said, taking a bite of her sandwich. "But you never joined them, hey?"

"I don't want it to happen that way," Alistair said. "I'd rather it be special. With someone I… someone I love." He didn't dare look at her. Couldn't. But then he did, almost afraid of what he might see. Ridicule? Skepticism?

It was understanding that met his eyes, and he fell in love with her a little more.

She nodded. "That's what I want, too. For my first time."

"You're... oh. I thought-"

She chuckled. "I haven't found the right person yet either."

Their eyes locked, Alistair's breath catching as the azure depths enfolded him in a silken caress. Marian looked away after only a moment, seeming embarrassed. She concentrated on her sandwich again, leaving Alistair feeling as though he'd just fallen from a ledge and was gripping with only one hand. It would be too easy to unhinge his fingers, let go and just fall...

It was then that he realized he was fooling himself. He'd already fallen. Plummeted. Dived headfirst, not knowing whether the water was shallow or deep, not caring what might be on the other end.

The silence grew, and he cleared his throat, the intimate moment fading away. "Enough of me. Now you. First kiss. Go."

She chewed and swallowed, then set her sandwich down before stealing a sip of tea, her fingers stroking over the smooth surface as she found the words she sought.

"Do you know that feeling you get when a limb falls asleep?" she asked, her eyes dimming as she drew on the memory.

Alistair dared to steal a bite of his own sandwich, waiting on the edge of her words.

"It was like that," she murmured, her fingers kneading the cup. "My whole body felt like it couldn't stop tingling, and my stomach got this odd warm feeling, like I'd just drunk a whole bottle of wine-"

"That good, hey?" Alistair teased, though her words painted an intricate picture he could easily imagine. Her gaze was so far-off, like she was in another time entirely, her lips curling with the remembered pleasure. He couldn't help but wonder if she'd feel the same way if he kissed her.

"That good," she agreed, a wistful smile touching her face. "I didn't even know his name."

Alistair's eyes flew wide. "How could you kiss someone without even knowing their name?"

She laughed, shaking her head. "I know, it's crazy. I never would have thought it. And maybe I shouldn't have let him... I don't know. I mean, yes, I shouldn't have let him - the blighter stole my purse." She sighed. "I was a mark, nothing more. And I got taken in." She shook her head. "Mother was furious at me that day, too, though I didn't tell her about the kss."

"I'm still surprised you let him get away from the templars," Alistair mused. "Especially when you discovered he was just a thief. You could have pointed them in his direction, or - do you know how to track? You could have tracked him."

"I-" she hesitated, then sighed. "Deep dark secrets... Alistair, I can trust you, right?"

"Of course," he said, brows lowering in concern.

Eyes raking him in speculation, she nodded slightly, as if confirming something in her own mind. "What's your loyalty to the templars?"

Where was this going? "Uh... I'm not one, not now, not anymore," Alistair said. "I mean, I'd love to hand Morrigan to them, but honestly that's more because I just don't like her than because I feel the need to bring her to justice. And she's supposed to help us - or so Flemeth said." He rolled his eyes. "Who knows. I trust that witch about as far as I can throw her. But.. I'm a Warden now, not a templar. Duncan used to say that the Wardens must do anything necessary to stop a blight. So I guess I'll put up with Morrigan, because she _might_ have some role to play, beyond just tormenting me."

Marian chewed her upper lip as she considered, sucking it into her mouth before it slid free once more, scraped by her teeth. Taking a deep breath, she set her teacup down, pulled a dagger from her waist and fingered it. "My father was a mage."

Alistair startled, shockwaves reverberating through him. Tingles echoed over his skin, the absolute unexpectedness of her words freezing him in place. She said no more, just watched him, wary as a rabbit caught by the eye of a fox.

"He was killed by templars," she finished, the blade sliding between her fingers. "I... saw it. All of it."

Still Alistair said nothing, his training rising to the top with his initial shocked reaction. Mages weren't supposed to have families, to have relationships, to sire children. They were too dangerous, unpredictable. The mage gift was rare, with only one in every twenty children or so being born with the ability, but that was with the assumption that both parents were non-magical. Certain families seemed to carry the bloodline, but just as often it popped up out of nowhere. But it was for this reason that the Chantry insisted mages not procreate. From what Alistair had heard, it was almost the opposite when mages had children - half of them were as magical as their parents, half were not. Was Marian...?

He flexed his power, templar senses flaring, and to his shock, she reacted. Sapphire eyes snapped up, a snarl coming to her lips. Alistair barely had time to draw breath before she whipped to her feet, her blade held against his throat.

"You _bastard_," she growled. "You think I'm a mage?"

"I... you felt that?" he gasped. "I - I'm sorry, Marian, I just -"

"I shouldn't have told you," she hissed. "You're no different. I thought you were something else, Alistair... I thought I could trust you." Every bit of friendliness was gone, her face carved into a hard mask of anger. "If you weren't one of only three Wardens left in Ferelden..." she shook her head, then backed up and slid the blade into her sheath with a sharp _snick_. "Walk away. Get up, go wherever it is you planned on going when we were finished here and just... stay away from my family."

"How could you feel that?" Alistair was amazed, stumbling over his words as he struggled to his feet. "I was taught that civilians couldn't feel magic-"

"Are you deaf? _Leave_, Alistair," she snapped. "I gave you a chance and you crushed it. Just once, I'd love to meet someone who didn't destroy my trust the moment I granted it."

"I - please, I didn't-"

"Why are you still here? Just go!" Marian cried. "I'm giving you your life, just... go!" She hugged her arms over her chest, looking for all the world like she was holding herself together so she wouldn't fall apart.

"Marian, no, please," Alistair stammered. "I didn't mean to - even if you _were_ a mage, I'd never... I care about you too much to - you're not-"

"Not what, Alistair? Not evil? Not a threat?" She advanced, the blade drawing from the sheath once more. "I'm not a mage, no. But I could kill you right now if I wanted to. I don't need spells to stop your breath."

Alistair gulped, backing up a pace as she rolled one menacing step forward, the dagger gripped in her fingers. Raising his hands in a careful gesture, he held them away from his body where she could see them. No sudden moves to grab his own weapon. She was so quick, he had no doubt that she could kill him before he'd slid the sword from its sheath.

"I'm not leaving, Marian," he said, his voice low. "I'm not walking away from you. Not like this."

She took another step forward. Small she might be, but the threat was unmistakable.

"I _will _kill you, don't think I can't do it..." said. "Terrible accident. Darkspawn, a blight wolf - it doesn't matter. Your body will never be found. They'll believe me, and we'll run. We've done it all my life - I can handle it again."

"Kill me, then," Alistair said, planting himself with trepidation. If she called his bluff... "I'll drop my weapon, kneel at your feet. If you really think I'm a threat to your family, you should kill me. I won't stop you."

Marian's face altered just a touch - a flash of uncertainty cutting through the calculated rage marring her beautiful features.

Encouraged, Alistair continued. "I never had a family, and I always wanted one. More than just about anything. Yours made me feel welcomed. Carver's already a brother of mine, and Bethany is one of the sweetest people I think I've ever met. Leandra is everything a mother should be. And you, Marian, I..." he slowed, the words choking his throat. _Say it!_ "I... I care about you, Marian." Tremulous, but there - he'd done it. It was on the table. She could do what she liked with it. Her face gave him no clues, so he rushed on. "I don't think I would care if every one of you were mages. There's no way I'd ever turn you in."

She said nothing, her face closed off, cold as the night. He risked a small step toward her. "Let me make it up to you. This was a really nice evening, and I... I ruined it. Say the word, I'll do anything you want. But don't make me leave. I don't want to end things like this - not with you."

The blade shook in her hand, her fingers shifting over the pommel. They stared at each other, the seconds slipping by one by agonizing one, the faint noise of a log settling on the fire cutting through the crash of Alistair's pounding heart.

"Templars killed my father," she said again, her voice shaky. "It was... I saw it all. I _will _kill them one day, don't doubt it. They _need_ to die."

Alistair nodded. "I'll help you if I can."

"You..." she blinked. "You'd _help_ me? Kill templars?"

"I'd help you kill anyone who threatened your family," he replied. "And I'm _not_ a templar. Not anymore. Not ever, really - I was trained as one, but Duncan got me out of there before I took any vows." He chanced another step forward. "Please, Marian... you can trust me."

Inscrutable - that was the word for it. Her face was impossible to read. Not that he was very good at it, anyway.

"Say something," he begged, his heart in his throat. "Don't just... Marian, please say something. _Anything_."

"Bethany's a mage," she whispered.

His breath stilled in his chest. Sweet Bethany Hawke... a mage, hiding in plain sight. He nodded a moment later as his body remembered how to breathe. Little comments, things he'd observed - with her words, it all tumbled into place. Carver asking him to wait outside before inviting him in. Marian saying they'd moved from place to place. Carver cutting himself off when talking about his sisters. Marian's comment about how Bethany had always needed _protecting_. They'd been on the run all their lives.

It was almost unfathomable - how many mages were there who did this, he wondered? Did other people know, and keep the secret with them? Was the Hawke family only one of many? _Stop it,_ he scolded himself. _It doesn't matter. They're _good _people._

"And she's your sister," Alistair said softly. "She's a sweet girl, a good person. As long as I can, I'll help you keep her safe. I promise you, Marian." Taking the final step, he closed the distance between them at last, itching to graze his fingers over her cheek. She turned her face up to his, the firelight playing over her face, vulnerable once more. "And I'll help you kill the bastards who murdered your father."

"Void take me, but I think you mean that," she murmured, her eyes filling with wonder. "You - a former templar."

"Of course I mean it," he murmured. "I don't say things I don't mean."

She appraised him, then gave a quick nod. "Just don't get in my way."

He dipped his chin once, agreeing. The moment grew, his eyes drawn to hers as a moth to a flame. _Maker help me, how I want this woman_, Alistair thought. Her breath caught, and something akin to fear lit in her eyes.

"Alistair," she murmured. "I - I don't..."

"You don't have to trust me," he said hurriedly, cutting her off. "Not yet. I mean, I hope you know you can. Your secret is safe, I promise you. The last thing I'd ever want to do is hurt you, or your family."

She nodded, taking a deep breath as her eyes flicked down to their boots. "I appreciate that." She backed away, the dagger sliding back into its place at her side, her hands raking through her hair and knuckling around the roots as she turned from him to stare into the darkness.

"How old were you when it happened?" he questioned. _She's so young to have been through all of this._

"Sixteen," she muttered. "Carver and Bethany were only fourteen."

"And now you're..." Alistair said, trying to put the puzzle pieces together in his mind.

"Eighteen," she said, then a touch of humor graced her face. "Well, nineteen, maybe, if it's past midnight."

"You're kidding," Alistair said. "Tomorrow's your birthday?"

She shrugged. "Not a big deal-"

"Of course it's a big deal," he cut her off, grinning like a fool. "You only get one birthday a year!"

She turned to face him again, one side of her mouth quirking upward. "I guess."

"So, what do you usually do? Family party? All night dancing? Coming of age ritual?"

She huffed a slight laugh. "Well, for the past two years I've been spending it drilling and eating camp rations with Cailan's regiment."

"Then you need an entire day of birthday fun," Alistair said firmly. "Starting with breakfast. Tomorrow, you and me, at the tavern." A quick mental count of his money - yes, he should have enough. And he still had a sovereign or two from Cousland - the git could buy them breakfast.

"Alistair, you're very sweet, but-"

"Don't say no, then," he begged, hazel eyes sparkling as he scooped her hands into his own. "Just meet me there tomorrow. Please?"

Her shoulders rose, then slumped as she let out a slow, acquiescing breath. When she gave a slow nod, Alistair felt like flying.


	7. Chapter 7: Alistair

**~ Alistair ~**

Alistair laved frigid water over the back of his neck, having already rinsed the harsh camp soap from his face and hair. He was shirtless, kneeling before the edge of the small lake... pond might be a better word, really. Lake Calenhad - now _that_ was a lake, with proper fishing and boats and a dangerous undertow to go along with it. Though some of the things that grew in that water - Alistair shuddered, remembering stories told to him by the other templars. Too much exposure to magic, and the lake's creatures were... dangerous.

Reaching blindly for his cloak, he dried off with it, glad to be as clean as he could get without paying for another bath. What coin he had left was going toward breakfast with Marian, and maybe a birthday gift, depending on what the marketplace had available. His shirt slipped over his head a moment later, the meager warmth it provided easing the goosebumps on his skin. A shiver quaked through him as he tied the cloak in place, only slightly dampened from his vigorous toweling.

Alistair hurried toward the small open-air market; with three vendors, it was hardly a bazaar. But even if one might consider the leather wristlets the armorer was selling to be jewelry, pickings were slim. He was tempted by a decorative glass bottle, but the gypsy woman wanted more than he was able to pay, and refused to come down on the price. He shuffled away from the stalls, discouraged. How could it be her birthday without a gift?

"Laddie," the vendor called, gesturing him back. "Yer not buyin' fripperies o' this sort fer yerself, now are ye? There's a girl in yer mind, am I right?" The old woman smiled, snaggle-teeth doing little to improve her age-spotted face, but it was a friendly gesture nonetheless.

Alistair colored, feeling the heat all the way to the roots of his hair. "It's her birthday," he admitted.

"Bah, none 'o these, then. Flowers, that's the thing," the woman nodded. "In the garden o' the chantry, there's flowers a-plenty. The sister's'll let ye pick some, I'd wager, if ye leave 'em a donation."

Alistair thanked the woman, suffering a kiss on the cheek and a tight hand-clasp. Old women had always been fond of him, for some reason. Usually they commented on his hair, or how much he reminded them of their sons. He rather suspected it was his willingness to listen to them prattle more than what he looked like.

At the chantry, it took less than a moment to tell the sisters what he was after, and a young brunette bowed him into the sprawling garden that bordered the back of the building.

Looking around, Alistair wondered if the old woman had remembered it was the dead of winter. For that matter - why hadn't _he_ remembered? With the cold season, the garden was mostly bare; the dirt furrowed into neat rows ready for the spring planting. A few orange flowers here, white and pink there - the varieties of snowdrops and other winter flowers that were all the sisters could cultivate in this cold. Pretty, but not what he'd had in mind. Alistair looked around, his mouth twisting as he searched for anything that might be worthy of Marian's birthday. Scant choices, indeed. Flowers, in Wintermarch? There simply wasn't-

A flash of red from the corner of his eye, and his head whipped sideways to discover a brilliant red rose nestled within a gnarled, colorless briar bush. It stood out, the one splash of color in an otherwise gray and dormant garden. Alistair hesitated... but the sister_ had _told him he was welcome to _any_ flowers he chose...

His knife severed the rose's stem without too much difficulty, though he did manage to cut his thumb on one substantial thorn. Frowning, he snapped it from the stem, hoping to keep Marian from similarly injuring herself. The fact that the most beautiful flower in Thedas had wicked barbs was something he mulled over as he hastened to the tavern, hoping he'd beat Marian there.

He was in luck - she had yet to show, and he snagged a table near the wall. The rose he wrapped in a clean handkerchief, setting it before the empty chair across from him. No, unwrap it - just lay it on the table. Or, maybe ask the bar for a cup of water to rest it in? How did one present a rose to a woman?

He continued to fret, worrying over what he was about to do. Finally he picked up the rose and just held it, bringing it to his nose for a long breath of fragrance. Gorgeous... softer than satin, the petals caressed his nose and lips. Would kissing Marian feel the same way? An involuntary shiver, the mental image of her so close heating him from within.

"Red really isn't your color," Cousland's voice cut through the moment of fantasy. Alistair opened his eyes, scowling at the git who'd slid into the chair opposite him.

"What'll you have?" the tavern girl said, hands wiping a rag tucked into her belt as she paused at the table.

"He's not staying-"

"Coffee," Cousland said easily, a condescending smile widening his face. "Eggs, bacon, bread. New cheese, if you have it. Nothing aged past a month."

"Coffee?" the girl said, hesitating. "I - sorry, but -"

A noisy groan filled the air as Cousland's head tipped back, eyes petulant. "Coffee? You know, made from beans, grows in mountainous areas, served at the best tables in Orlais and Antiva?"

The girl only shook her head, eyes wide. Alistair cocked a brow. He'd _heard_ of coffee, but Ferelden didn't harvest any such thing. Orlesian, mostly - if Cousland was used to having it, Alistair imagined that his family must have done a fair bit of trading. _Welcome to roughing it,_ he thought.

"Forget it," Cousland grumped. "Tea. Strong - none of this barely brewed shit. And honey."

The girl nodded, mouth twisting. From the look on her face, Alistair figured she probably knew just how much coin Cousland was worth, for she said nothing of his rude manner. Her eyes skipped to Alistair. "You?"

"A pot of tea, if you please... separate from his. And I'll be ordering more, but I'm waiting for a friend." Alistair offered the girl a cordial smile. She brightened a bit, nodding, then scurried off.

"A friend, is it?" Cousland chuckled. "Who could it be, I wonder, with you making love to that rose. Someone who you must wish was a bit more than just... a friend..." He leaned his cheek into one hand, casting mooney eyes at Alistair. "Is the little Warden in love?"

"What do you want, Aedan?" Alistair set the rose on the table, his eyes darting to the door. The last thing he needed was for Cousland to join them for Marian's birthday breakfast.

"Nothing. Just spending a little time with my good friend Alistair."

"Ha. Funny. What do you really want?"

Cousland's brow lowered, confusion touching his handsome face. "Just that. Why would you doubt me?"

Alistair suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. He _did_ have to work with this jerk, so it behooved him to be nice. He supposed.

"So, really. Who's the rose for?" Cousland barely glanced at the serving girl as she set Alistair's pot of tea and two cups, along with his own mug, complete with honey-dish and spoon, on the table before them. Alistair slipped a coin into her palm before she hurried off again. Only a copper, but she'd likely get several more such tips from him before breakfast was over with.

"None of your business," Alistair groused, peeking into the teapot to see if it needed more steeping. It did.

"Come on..." Cousland wheedled, then smirked. "I know. Carver's sister - what's her name."

"Marian," Alistair growled, the correction coming automatically to his lips. The second he said it, his eyes fell shut, annoyed at how easily he'd fallen into Cousland's trap. His fellow Warden grinned like a feral cat, honey running off his spoon into his teacup.

"That bitch?" Cousland sniggered, then shrugged. "Sorry. She's a cute thing, no doubt about it. She like roses?"

"She's going to be here any minute. Seriously, go _away_," Alistair hissed, his nerves growing.

"No."

"Aedan, please, give me a break!" Nervous now, Alistair shot another look at the door. Spoon clinking, Cousland dragged it along the rim of his mug, dunking it back in the honey dish after sweeping it into his mouth, cleaning it of lingering drops.

"Tell me what you're going to say." Cousland picked up the mug and sipped. "Something tells me you haven't done this very much."

"I'm not-"

"Come _on_," Cousland coaxed. "I'm trying to help. Pretend I'm Marian. What are you going to say, when you present me with the rose that will win my heart?" Lashes fluttering, he simpered, one hand pressing to his heart, voice rising to a falsetto. "Alistair, what a sweet gift! I adore roses. You're just so manly, and any moment I'm going to rip my clothes off and have you right atop the table, if only you have sweetened words to go along with your wonderfully romantic gesture-"

"Aedan, _please_," Alistair begged, one hand raking backward through his hair. Maybe a distraction would help. "Where's your redhead this morning?"

Cousland slanted back, a dark look shadowing his face. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Really." Now it was Alistair's turn to grin as Cousland sipped his tea. "She didn't go for it, did she?"

"Can it," Cousland grated. "She wasn't worth it anyway."

Mirth tugged at Alistair's lips. He twirled the rose, entertained by Cousland's about-face, wondering where the smooth warrior had gone wrong. Maybe it _would_ be good to test his lines on someone... at the very least, he'd get a practice run before he tripped and stumbled all over himself.

"I thought I'd start by telling her that she reminded me of this rose," Alistair said. Cousland's eyes snapped up. Alistair swallowed, expecting judgement, but none came. The man nodded, and so emboldened, Alistair continued. "Beautiful, rare... something lovely to find amidst all this darkness. The thorns are like her daggers... sharp, a hidden sting one doesn't expect when handling such a delicate flower. Strong, to bloom in even the harshest of circumstances. And..." Alistair hesitated. "I guess that's about it."

Cousland nodded, his eyes far away as he mulled over all that Alistair had said. "It'll do."

"Yeah?" Alistair grinned, pleased. High praise from one such as Aedan Cousland, who took joy in tormenting everyone around him.

The man looked troubled, the spoon finding its way back to the cup as he stirred slowly. "May I?" He reached for the rose, and with a touch of trepidation, Alistair handed it over. Cousland fingered the stem, then pressed the blossom to his own nose, his eyes drifting shut. "My mother was an archer... she wore rose-water," he mumbled. "Thank you."

"Uh... you're welcome," Alistair said. Cousland held the rose to his face, sadness carving lines into his forehead. Not wishing to disrupt his moment of memory, Alistair said nothing, just kept a nervous eye on the door as the serving girl deposited Aedan's platter of breakfast on the table before him.

"Aedan, how lovely to see you again." A cheerful, lilting voice approached, and Aedan stood, the rose still held tight in his hand.

"Leliana." He captured her hand and pressed his lips to it. "You are as lovely as the morning."

"Charming, as ever, Lord Cousland." Leliana replied, a touch of allure in her soft eyes. "I thought perhaps you might join me for breakfast?"

"I would be honored, lady." Snapping his fingers, he gestured to the serving wench, who scurried over to gather his platter and cup of tea.

Leliana turned at the last moment. "Alistair, would you care to-"

"He's waiting for a friend," Cousland cut her off, his hand resting at the small of her back, an easy laugh tumbling forth. "He's actually been trying to get rid of me for the last few minutes."

"Then I shall remove this cheeky nobleman, and wish you a nice day, Ser Alistair," Leliana smiled brightly, and turned away.

"Aedan," Alistair called urgently. "Um, you've got my-"

Cousland flipped him a coin. "Thanks." The man sauntered after Leliana, and Alistair watched, mouth hanging open as Aedan presented Leliana with the rose he'd planned on giving Marian. She was delighted, and positively cooed over Aedan's suave words.

"_Son of a bitch_," Alistair whispered, stunned to hear his carefully planned speech leaving Cousland's lips.

"Everything alright?"

Head snapping around, Alistair paled to see Marian standing before the table, concern furrowing her brow.

"Uh - yes," he stammered, slapping a smile on his face, his chair scraping the floor as he stood up quickly. "Morning! Um, sit down?" Rounding the table, he pulled her chair out, scooting it in as she lowered herself to sit. Her eyes widened; she looked surprised that he would do such a thing. _Is this wrong?_ he wondered, then decided no, she probably just wasn't used to men treating her with respect. Such behaviors came naturally to Alistair, who had been raised by a gaggle of demanding women.

A look of amusement twitched the corners of her mouth and eyes as he dragged his own chair out again. "You seem nervous." Marian accepted the cup of tea Alistair poured for her, setting it on the table as he signaled to the serving girl.

"Me? No. I mean, sure, I suppose I'm a little nervous," Alistair babbled, then took a calming breath, forcing himself to relax. So Cousland had stolen his rose and given it to another woman. So he had no gift for Marian. She was here, right? Thing could be worse. She could have stood him up. Bethany might have shown up instead, telling him that Marian never wanted to see him again. Cousland might not have left the table at all. Things could _definitely _be worse.

"Marian!" From across the room, Sister Leliana waved to them, a delighted smile on her classical face. Marian stood just in time to be enveloped in a tight, laughing hug, her small form nearly swallowed by the taller girl's robes. "When did you get back?"

"Day before yesterday. Carver and I both."

"Have you kept up with your bow?"

"Are you kidding?"

The girls chattered as Cousland sidled over. Alistair ignored him, waiting with all the courtesy he could muster for the ass to take Sister Leliana and leave them alone.

"Have you ordered yet? Don't bother with the bread. It's stale." Cousland inspected his nails, his tongue working a bit of something from between his teeth.

"How could you do that to me?" Alistair whispered, barely contained fury crimsoning the edges of his ears. "That was - that was _my_ rose. It was for Marian! And _you _- _stole_ my speech! You think I'm just gonna nod and laugh and pretend everything's okay?"

Cousland shrugged. "If you think I care, you're sadly mistaken."

Alistair ground his teeth. "You know what? Fine. But next time you cross me, I won't be so... so..."

"Namby-pamby?" Cousland drawled, totally straight-faced, then pulled out a chair for Leliana.

"You don't mind, do you Marian? We don't have to-"

"No, please, join us Sister." Marian sat down again as Leliana and Cousland settled around the table, and so Alistair forced a nauseous smile and flopped into his chair. No rose. No birthday present at all. No private breakfast. No moment with Marian. What else could go wrong?

"What'll you have?" the serving girl asked, disrupting Marian and Leliana's continued talk.

"Ale," Alistair said, uncaring of the odd looks his companions threw him. If he was going to get through this breakfast, he deserved a drink to go with it.

.oOo.

"It was a sign. A sign from the Maker!" Leliana was all seriousness, blue eyes wide, hands twisting a kerchief between urgent fingers. Marian rested her chin in her palm, studying the lay-sister as she analyzed her words. Cousland darted a glance at Alistair, as if trying to gauge his fellow Warden's reaction to Leliana's crazy story. Alistair ignored him, paying great attention instead to the butter he was slathering on his bread, which did in fact have the misfortune of being day-old. Nothing more cheese wouldn't fix, though, and he laid another slice over the top.

"It seems so... unlikely," Marian mused. "The chantry teaches us that the Maker has turned his back on the world. To get a sign from him... But I suppose you might have dreamt of the blight."

"It was then I knew," Leliana continued, her voice taking on a haunting quality. "There was something I needed to do. It's why I came to meet you here this morning, Aedan," she turned to the Wardens, catching Alistair with his mouth full. Aedan folded his arms, skepticism tilting his head. "I want to go with you, to combat the blight. I think you'll need me," the redhead finished.

A smirk crossed Cousland's swarthy face. "Sister, I hardly think the road is the place for a woman of faith-"

"What can you do for us?" Alistair cut him off, remembering Carver's comment about how Leliana was "really good" with her bow.

"I can fight," she said, eyes sparkling as she focused on Alistair. "I'm an archer, and I wield blades as well-"

"Look... Leliana." Cousland leaned forward, crossed arms coming to rest on the table before his empty breakfast platter. "Whatever small skill you might possess, it can't possibly be enough to keep you out of danger. Not with us, not where we're going. You're a nice girl. An archdemon short of a blight, perhaps, but nice. And pretty. Stay here in Lothering, and let the men take care of things."

A chill passed over Leliana's face, her mouth puckering as those warm blue eyes turned to hoarfrost. Whatever she might have said was lost to the sands of time, for a rough voice raised from across the room.

"Oy! Them's the Wardens!"

Six thugs, brutish in dress and musculature, stood, making their slow way across the room. The rest of the tavern went quiet, sensing some impending drama.

"'At's them, right Teb?"

"Sure is. Lessee..." Teb pulled a missive from his pocket, scanning it with deeply lowered brows. "One Alistair No-Surname, one Aedan Cousland." He looked up, tongue delving into the pocket of his cheek, nodding as he shoved the vellum against his companion's chest. "'S them, alright. All that's missing is Carver Hawke."

"So we'll hafta find'eem," the third grinned. "Loghain wants 'em all, dead or alive. The price for the king's murderers is generous."

"Dead's easier," the fourth grunted, clearing a bit of ick from his nose with a not-so-clean finger.

Alistair and Aedan rose slowly, eyes trained on the six who stalked forward. There was a mad rush as the rest of the patrons cleared the room, unwilling to be part of the conflict. In seconds, the room was empty but for the bartender and the serving girl, who ducked behind the bar. The clinking of glass and a slight thump, and then all was quiet.

Alistair's eyes swept the line of men who wanted them dead, strategy falling into place as he planned his first move. "Marian, Leliana, get out of here," Alistair said in a low voice. "Tell Carver to-"

"Tell him yourself." Marian's hand darted to the table, where Alistair's eating-knife lay atop his mostly empty plate. Her motion was fluid; her hand barely moved, yet the knife sliced through the air, burying itself in the socket of nose-picker's eye. He dropped without a sound, spiraling to the floor to land in a greasy heap. All eyes were on the thin trickle of blood that dripped, pooling on the grimed wood beneath his cheek.

"Holy!" Alistair gasped, breaking the silence, then dove aside as the other five rushed forward with a maddened yell. Cousland flipped the table, ducking behind its scant cover as dishes and cups smashed to the floor. Broken crockery skittered, tripping up one of the bandits, who went down in a howling sprawl, one cheek slicing open on a fragment of pottery.

Alistair crawled back toward the table to snatch up the leather sheath that held his blade, having unstrapped it from his back for breakfast and leaned it against his chair. Scrabbling back to his feet, he struggled with the sword, cursing as it caught in the leather. Too late - one of the bandits knocked it from his grasp, backing him against the bar with an unsightly grin.

"Can't we talk about this?" Alistair gasped, edging along the bar. A nearly empty bottle met the edge of his fingertips, and he snatched it, ducking his attacker's sword and clobbering him with the business end of the wine jug. The bandit staggered, a piteous moan echoing from within his horned helmet. Alistair got a fresh grip on his new weapon of choice and dealt the man another skull-numbing strike, bringing him this time to his knees. "Guess you're the strong silent type, am I right?"

Sparing an upward glance, he scanned the room, seeking Marian out, wanting to assure her safety. He blinked... she seemed to have disappeared completely. Had she run?

No time to think of it - his mark had staggered back to his feet. "Have a drink. On me," Alistair grunted, swinging the bottle with all of his might. The heaviest, glassiest edge caromed against his attacker's cheek, and the man spun, collapsing in a graceless pile a moment later. Alistair flipped the bottle, impressed with himself, then threw it, pinning one of the highwaymen in the spine. The bandit crumpled, howling with pain and rage.

Cousland had another one engaged, as did... Leliana? Alistair froze, watching in astonishment as the chantry redhead engaged her opponent with dual daggers, her movements quick as lightning and twice as flashy. She spun and whirled, a hurricane in robes, blue eyes flashing with righteous wrath. Almost too fast to see, her weapons caught the firelight, shining gold that left trailing ribbons of light across his dazzled vision. Hiking her skirts above her knee, she crouched and spun, sweeping one shapely leg across her match's ankles, downing him in under a second. A wild, ululating cry, and her crossed daggers slashed a bloody smile into his throat, blood flying, scarlet droplets speckling her face and hands as she rose to her feet once more. Battle maiden and protector, she snarled, fierce as a mabari, terrible and beautiful in her fury.

"Alistair," a voice called him out of his reverie, and he spun just in time to see Marian melt out of a shadow and leap onto the back of the final brigand, who'd had the indecency to try sneaking up on him while he was distracted. Her dagger opened his throat, a gout of blood fountaining over her hands, and she leapt lightly away as he toppled, gurgling.

Cousland's sword entered the gut of his opponent, sliding out milliseconds later, reddened and dripping. "That's it?" he taunted as the last man fell, one fist jammed into the bleeding hole that was his stomach. "Is that all you've got?"

A single white-fletched arrow thunked into the wall inches from Cousland's ear, and the four of them hit the floor, Alistair pulling Marian down behind the overturned table. The arrow had come from upstairs - hidden archers?

"You sure know how to show a girl a good time," Marian murmured, eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed. Alistair gave a short, surprised laugh - she _liked_ this sort of thing!

"Well, you know. It _is_ your birthday," he offered with a saucy grin.

"We haven't even had cake," she giggled. "I don't know how you could possibly top this..."

Eyes locking with hers, he raised one hand to graze her cheek, adrenaline tingling through his veins. Maker, but she was so impossibly beautiful... _Now_, Alistair thought, his breath ragged as he leaned in.

An arrow exploded through the splintered wood, the metal head centered square between their prone bodies, startling them both backward. _Damn it!_ Alistair swore inwardly, then fed Marian a quirked half-smile. "To be continued," he promised, then peeked over the table's edge.

"I left my bow at home," Marian muttered, rising up a touch to peek with him.

They needn't have worried. Sister Leliana had slunk her way up the stairs, using the shadows as effectively as Marian herself had done. A heartbeat after their eyes lifted over the lip of the table, Leliana's lilting accent floated down from the balcony. "We're clear."

Marian rolled to her feet, the intimate moment they'd almost had lost as she knelt to clean her blades on one of the low-life's tunics.

"Who were they?" Alistair wondered, but was cut off when the tavern door burst open.

"Marian!" Carver bellowed, the doors rocking on their hinges as her younger brother careened through the entry. "Are you alright?"

"Fine." Marian unfolded herself, accepting Carver's shaken embrace.

"It's spreading like wildfire - talk of what happened. They're saying there were twelve at least-"

"Six," Marian said as she stepped over to nose-picker's still form. With a quick wrench, Alistair's eating-knife left the socket, and she offered it to Alistair, a twinkle in her eye.

"Uh... keep it," Alistair said, disturbed by the jellied crud clinging to the silvered metal. "I don't think I want it back after knowing where it's been."

"It washes," Marian scoffed, but she cleaned the knife and dropped it into her pouch with a grin. "So it isn't that clean. So what?"

"It isn't that sharp, either," Alistair chuckled.

"Hey! Just like you!"

"What?!" Alistair cried, feigning deep injury. ""I'm cleaner than that knife. I'll have you know, I bathed this morning."

"Where, in the lake?" Marian giggled.

Alistair sniffed. "Maybe."

"Ladies, I hate to interrupt what seems like a... _riveting _conversation." Cousland wagged a roll of vellum back and forth. "But we're wanted men."

"What do you mean?" Alistair skirted the dead bodies, making his way to Cousland's side as the vellum was unrolled.

"By order of Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, the Grey Wardens Alistair No-Surname... huh, I thought they were joking about that," Cousland muttered, throwing him an odd glance. Alistair shifted, then shrugged, unwilling to comment on his lineage. Let them think him a chantry orphan who could claim no family. It was what he'd always been prepared to do, and far better than taking the name Theirin... especially with Cailan dead. "...Aedan Cousland and Carver Hawke are deemed to be outlaws, criminals of the highest degree for the murder of our good king, Cailan Theirin, at the battle of Ostagar. Any who bring these men to justice, dead or alive, are to be awarded the sum of one-hundred sovereigns."

"For each of us, or all together?" Carver asked, interested.

Cousland scanned the missive, mumbling to himself as he searched for the answer to Carver's question. "Each."

"Wow," Carver said with an upturned mouth. "Marian, did you ever think I'd be worth so much?"

"You prat," she snapped. "How can you joke about this?"

Carver shrugged, having the grace to look uncomfortable. "What else do you suggest we do?"

"We run," Leliana said, her hand trailing the banister as she glided down the stairs. "I shall go with you, to help stop the blight. It's what you were planning on doing anyway, isn't it? We'll just have to stay out of the way of the law. I can help."

"Sister Leliana," Cousland began, looking pained, but Alistair cut him off with a whoop of joy, recalling the sister's awesome display.

"Yes! Leliana, we'd love to have you come along, that is, if you're willing to leave the chantry?"

"More than willing," Leliana assured him with a wink. "The Maker himself has demanded it. You couldn't keep me away if you tried."

"Fantastic," Alistair exulted. Who could tell whether or not Leliana was insane for believing the Maker was sending her on their mission, what mattered was that they get the help. Cousland looked rather less than thrilled, but Alistair was over the moon - another friendly face, and one who could fight? _Yes please!_ With Leliana along, perhaps traveling with Cousland and Morrigan would be less odious.

"We should go as soon as possible," Leliana said briskly. "More could be on their way, and we've no idea if our friends here had others waiting for them to report back. I'll go back to the chantry and get a few of my things, and I'll meet you at the stairs to the Imperial Highway in a quarter of an hour."

"Uh... yes," Alistair said. Cousland only nodded, seeming to have grudgingly accepted that Sister Leliana would be coming with them. He jogged up the stairs, presumably to his room to gather his equipment, as Leliana exited the tavern. Carver said something about saying goodbye to his mother and sisters, and pulled Marian along after him. It was in Alistair's mind to follow, but then he paused, wondering how welcome he would really be for that final farewell. None of them might ever see each other again... surely Carver deserved those moments alone with his family. Dejected, the loneliness that had always dogged him rising up to smack him in the face, he trudged to the supply room, where the innkeeper had allowed him to lay his pack for safekeeping.

.oOo.

They'd been on the road half an hour, and Leliana had spent the time quizzing Cousland on everything under the sun as Lothering faded behind them. Alistair was moody, kicking himself for not finding a moment to tell Marian he would miss her, that he'd come back for her, that if she was willing, he would pledge himself to her. _He_ could die, just as easily as Carver - why hadn't he thought of that when he'd almost followed them? Wasn't _that _worth taking a chance for?

"Why do you ask me these questions?" Cousland snarked, irritated.

"To discover more about your character," Leliana said simply, one hand reaching up to pluck a leaf from a low-hanging branch. She was outfitted in leather armor, well-worn but of expert make, somewhat old but quite expensive from the look of it. The supple suede clung to her curves, silhouetting a figure that most women would kill for. Red hair gleamed in the morning glow, feathered ends artfully mussed, lending her a just-woken-up sort of look. Twin blades strapped to her back, and a fancy bow looped over one arm, along with a quiver of grey-fletched arrows. A wide-belt with pouches a-plenty graced her waist, and a rucksack - likely with her blanket and a bit of food - was slung over one shoulder. Burnished knee-high boots stepped through the mud and undergrowth, scuffed but clean and in excellent condition, and probably finer than any he'd seen on a woman in Ferelden. _Orlesian, it must be - all of it_, Alistair thought. Why would a chantry sister have _any_ of this?

"And what have you found?" A bit of flirtation entered Cousland's voice, and Leliana laughed, the sound blithe and dismissive.

"Very little," she countered. "You are mostly bluster, lies, and exaggeration. You have an extremely high opinion of yourself, but whether or not you deserve it remains to be seen. You are a cheat, and a scoundrel, and nothing good will come of you, Aedan Cousland."

Alistair's brows shot up. His melancholy mood lifted as he watched the shock filter over Cousland's face. Blessed few people had dared tell him just who he was, Alistair was willing to bet. He bit back a snicker, enjoying Cousland's discomfort more than he probably should have.

"Well, aren't you a cocky bitch," Aedan growled at last. "I suppose you think you're smart."

"Just observant." Leliana flipped him a knowing glance, then dropped back to walk beside Alistair. Cousland's eyes narrowed, but then he turned forward again, a dark flush coloring the back of his neck.

Carver said nothing through all of this, just continued to stare off into the woods, searching for something. The tension suddenly bled from Carver's shoulders, and Alistair caught sight of a dark, slender figure leaned against a stone pillar a hundred yards off. Carver lifted a hand, waving, new spring in his step. _So that's what he was waiting for,_ Alistair thought. The fact that the sultry witch had remained absent hadn't even crossed his mind, though apparently, it had been much on Carver's.

"Who's that?" Leliana murmured, and Alistair filled her in as best he could. She was a touch surprised, but accepted it without fuss. "I can handle the cooking," she offered when Alistair told her of Morrigan's refusal to assist with meals. "Between Carver and me, we should eat well."

"I'm more worried about supply," Alistair admitted. "It's winter-"

Leliana chuckled. "Worry not. I imagine Morrigan can be persuaded to help with plants, and even in winter, the land offers much. You'll see."

He liked this Leliana. She was easy to talk to, friendly, with a sharp sense of humor that complemented his own. They were soon chatting like old friends, bringing up the rear of their small party. They hadn't been talking for all that long when Leliana paused, turning an ear back to the road they'd just covered.

"Do you hear that?" she asked, and Alistair listened.

"No, what-"

"Shhh," she hissed, a look of concentration covering her face. Alistair half expected her to drop to the earth and press her ear to it, but then a sunny smile broke out. "We have company."

"Uh... the good kind?"

"Very," Leliana sparkled. "Walk with me. Slowly." Continuing in the direction they'd been traveling, she meandered, hands clasped behind her back in the most relaxed of positions. Puzzled, Alistair walked with her, nodding and responding to her easy chatter for a few minutes, wondering what in Thedas Leliana was -

"Carver! Alistair!"

_Marian?_

Spinning back the way they'd come, a ripple of amazement passed through him to see a cloaked figure ghosting down the highway, with the giant Sten in tow. She sprinted, the forest-green fabric billowed around her ankles, larger than life. Beside the qunari she seemed even smaller than she actually was, a live doll, though of the two he was the one that seemed less than real. He ran easily at her side, a giant sword strapped to his bare back, his stern face set in that same perpetual scowl.

"Alistair," she breathed when the two of them skidded up a moment later. "I picked the lock on his cage. Take him with you."

"Marian?" Carver took one look at the qunari and gasped. "No. No way! He's not coming with us-"

"He _is_," she insisted, wilting her brother with a look. "I spent the better part of a day convincing him, so don't you turn him away now. He can _help_."

"Why not?" Cousland jeered, crossing his arms as he looked Sten over. "We've got a witch, a sister, a templar, and now a giant. Sure. In fact, Marian, why don't _you_ come along as well, and round out this party of crazies?"

Marian ignored him, focusing instead on her brother. "Carver Hawke, if you don't take him with you I'll tell mother about what _really_ happened last Satinalia." Wiry hands fisted on her hips, her chin jutting upward in defiance. "Trust me... that would be bad."

Carver groaned, slumping. "Marian..."

"I'm still your big sister," she reminded him. "You _still_ have to listen to me."

"Yeah, my teeny, _little_ big sister, with the personality of an ogre. No wonder I joined the Wardens," Carver muttered, but his lips were twitching. "You're as pushy as Mother."

"We'll take him, Marian," Alistair said, cutting off her protests. "Sten, don't murder us in our sleep, and we won't kill you while you're awake. Fair enough?"

Sten glowered down at him, lavender eyes hard.

"You sure know how to pick them," Alistair muttered to her, hoping he wasn't making a giant mistake.

"Very well. He can come," Cousland said with a negligent wave of his hand, sounding bored. "What's one more mouth to feed?"

"Bye Carver," Marian whispered, rising on tiptoes to slip her arms around her brother's neck. "Don't get dead." The siblings clung, drawing out their goodbye, and then Marian turned away, tears brightening her already vivid eyes.

"Farewell, good lady," Cousland said melodramatically, sweeping her hand into his own and bringing it to his lips. Loud, wet kissing noises followed, and Marian yanked away, her sadness turning to annoyance. He smirked, amused at the way she wiped her hand over the edge of her cloak. "There's a good chance none of us will live to see you again, you know."

"How sad. Get right on that, would you?" Marian hissed.

"Aww, no goodbye kiss for us heroes?" Cousland teased with a mock pout.

"Only the heroes get kisses," she returned, pinning him with an icy glare. As if making a point, she stepped up to Alistair and laced her arms around his neck. His heart went into overdrive, sweat breaking over his palms to feel her lithe form melded so close to his. Goosebumps broke over his skin, and his arms tightened, eyes drifting shut as her raven head nestled against his.

"Don't forget your promise... take care of Carver. And come back," she whispered, then the softest, sweetest touch he'd ever felt pressed to his cheek... her lips, kissing him goodbye. Rose petals had _nothing_ on this. He swallowed, frozen by the momentous nature of the moment, managing nothing better than a murmured agreement. Marian wanted him to come back... _she wanted him to come back_. She smelled of birch, of things growing, the scent of the woods - it clung to her, more potent than any perfume. Alistair inhaled, taking in the feel of her, the scent of her, memorizing his Marian before he had to let her go, perhaps forever. He would do everything in his power not to let that happen.

One more squeeze, and she was gone, sliding away from him as easily as the wind. A lump choked in his throat, his arms aching to hold her again, wishing for just one more moment with her. Eyes glued to the fluttering green, he watched as the girl he loved ran back to Lothering, back to responsibility, back to a life he could only pray would one day include himself.

Carver was the one to bring him back to reality, clapping him on the shoulder with an understanding grin. "The sooner we go, the sooner we'll be back," he offered, and Alistair nodded, turning toward the Imperial Highway once more.

It was only the beginning.

* * *

_A/N: Yay! The end of Lothering! HAHA! :-D Thanks always to Jaden Anderson for the beta, and for just being plain amazing. :-D_

_Hope you enjoyed, my dears! Next chapter should FINALLY be named something other than "Alistair". :-D And with luck, it won't take me ten days to get it put up! However, in my defense, I've been quite mentally drained from writing the last couple of "Seeds Of The Future" chapters, and I do need to make sure I keep up with that one as well. But I had tons of fun writing this, and I hope you had tons of fun reading it. Do leave me a review, so I can squee and dance and spicy-shimmy. Love, Eve_


	8. Chapter 8: Akarra

**9:19 Dragon, Kinloch Hold**

**~Akarra~**

The rowboat rocked, paddles splashing in the water as they pushed off, leaving the shore of Lake Calenhad behind. Akarra Amell stared up through the rain, small mouth twisting petulantly, a thick fringe of dark hair plastered against her forehead. Shining drops beaded her lashes, and she squinched her eyes shut. More than anything, she wanted to open them and see the docks leading to the markets of Hightown. This was a bad dream. _Not real, not real..._ she held her breath. On three, she'd open her eyes and her mother's smiling face would be there. One, two-

Her eyes flew open when the bottom of the boat scraped, jarring her out of her seat. She'd never seen just how close they were to the shore. Her wishing had _not_ worked, and she stared disdainfully up at the tower... Kinloch Hold. One turret? That was all? Compared to Kirkwall's chantry, it was puny! The shiny statue of Andraste in the inner sanctum was _much_ bigger, and it was only a statue, not a building. And why was their bridge all smashed up? She would have walked, but instead she'd had to ride in a tippy rowboat with splintery edges. A sour taste filled her mouth as she realized this horrid tower would be her new home. Til she _died_.

Akarra swallowed a sob, her blurred eyes clearing as hot tears spilled down her cheeks. Not that anyone would notice, not with it being so cold and wet. If her nose got red and puffy from sniffling, the stupid templars would probably think she just had a cold.

The two templars chatted and joked the whole time, laughing as they climbed from the boat, their voices rough to her delicate ears. Akarra scowled, angry at them for laughing while she cried. There was nothing to be happy about. She'd been scared of them at first, but after five days of them not talking to her she mostly just hated them for taking her away from Kirkwall.

"Out, young miss," one of them said, not even offering to help her. She didn't know their names and she didn't care if it was rude. _They _didn't know hers either, and not _once_ had they called her 'Lady' or 'Young Mistress', or even bowed as they should have to a noble girl. With an icy glare worthy of her mother, Akarra clambered out of the rowboat, her knees wobbling as she landed in the wet sand.

"See you next week, Kester," one of them said, then took hold of Akarra, his metal-clad hand wrapping all the way around her thin arm. "Come on, then. Rain's not letting up anytime soon. There's fires in the tower, and they'll get you some dry robes soon as you've been fitted."

"I've got my own dresses," she shot back, then bit her tongue. A lady did not show distress, only coolness and perfect poise. Even when things were as awful as they were right now.

The other templar flicked a glance at the one who held her arm, his expression unreadable. They said nothing, however, just gathered her valice and led her across the short stretch of beach to the great oaken door. The hinges groaned in protest as the door was forced open, and she gasped as the templar dragged her through, her feet slipping a bit on the polished marble. Akarra winced when it boomed shut behind her, eyes darting backward to catch the last sliver of gray sky before she was eternally isolated from the outside world.

She knew what happened to mages, and it scared her terribly. Mages were evil, so bad they had to be locked up forever and never see their families again, because they might kill them by accident. Her chest got tight, and it hurt thinking about what had happened.

_"I'm afraid there is no room in the Gallows, Lady Amell. Your daughter-"_

_"I have no daughter," her mother said stiffly, __elegant hands folded atop her striped taffeta skirt. The Revered Mother glanced up from her record book, the quill stilling in her fingers. Her gaze slid from Akarra to Lady Amell, absorbing the wall that had sprung up between woman and girl. Akarra tipped her chin down to her lap, her shoulders quivering as she tried desperately not to cry like the baby she knew her mother must think she was._

_"Young Mistress Amell-"_

_"Perhaps you did not understand me. Call her Akarra - this girl is no Amell." Her mother stood, a heavy purse clutched in her hand. Her arm extended, the satin pouch clinking with an ungodly amount of coin as it shifted in her fingers. "I trust the Chantry will accept our donation? I know just how greatly you must need it." With a golden jingle, the purse landed on the desk, and Lady Revka Amell hurried from the room without a backward glance._

_Mother Elthina ignored the pouch as she set her quill down, lacing her fingers on the desk. As tempting as it was to look back, to chase after her mother and cling to her skirt, begging her not to leave her, Akarra did none of these things. Instead, she merely sat, tears dripping from her nose as the door slammed behind her mother. A frightened sob choked past her guard, her throat hurting terribly with the strain. She was so scared to let Mother Elthina see her cry. _

_"How old are you, my dear?" The voice was soft and kind, but Akarra refused to look up._

_"Nine," she whispered._

_Papers shuffled on the desk. "You were observed using magic in the markets of Hightown. How long have you known of your powers?"_

_Akarra looked up, her eyes pleading. "Please, ma'am-"_

_"Just answer, my dear," Mother Elthina admonished her gently._

_Akarra swallowed. She wasn't sure she could talk all that well, but she would have to try. "I didn't know I was a mage. I _never_ knew. Please, please believe me."_

_"I do, Akarra. Tell me, what happened?"_

* * *

"New girl! Hey, wait!"

Akarra clutched her books to her chest, her heart stopping at the voice of the boy who called to her. She turned, blinking as he jogged toward her.

"You're Amara, right?"

"Akarra," she bit out. She _hated_ when people got her name wrong. It wasn't hard.

"Oh, sorry. Akarra. I'm Anders." He stuck his hand out, his brown eyes wide and warm. Akarra hesitated, then shifted her books to one arm and shook his hand awkwardly.

In her three days at the tower, she had yet to make a friend. None of the other girls would talk to her, but whispered and stared, giggling behind their hands. She ignored them, well aware that they were probably low-born anyway. _Nobility is a lonely responsibility_, her mother had often said. So she would be alone. Who needed friends?

But this boy seemed kind of nice. She rolled her lip between her teeth, wondering if he only wanted something from her, like maybe her notes.

"What's your next class?"

"Um, elements," she managed. "What's yours?"

"Anatomy." He made a face. "They say I'll be a good healer if I study. But there's _so_ much you have to know to be a healer... it's dumb. I'd rather be a force mage. They use lightning and earth all the time and it's _awesome_."

"How old are you?" she asked, taken aback. How could anyone know what they might be good at? They were just kids... did they get tested or something?

"Eleven. And you're nine. I heard. Everyone's talking about you, y'know. They say you have _no_ idea what you're doing."

"Oh..." She swallowed, tears threatening again. It was true - she _didn't_ have any idea what she was doing. She must really be evil if the Maker were punishing her this way, if her own mother hated her enough to get rid of her.

"It's okay. I've been at the tower for _years_, I can help you." The two of them began walking down the hall, Anders chatting her ear off the whole way. For her part, Akarra stayed quiet, nodding or mumbling when he asked her about things. He dropped her off at her elements class, saying he'd be back at the end of the day to take her to the dinner hall.

And just like that, Akarra had a friend.

* * *

"It was bad, Anders," Akarra whispered. "So bad."

"Oh, come on. It can't have been _that_ bad. I hear," Anders leaned in, his brown eyes getting big, "that if you're _really_ bad, they make you Tranquil."

"What's that?"

They were sitting in an empty classroom, taking advantage of the last hour before the eighth bell and lights out. Boys and girls weren't allowed in each other's dorms, so meeting there wasn't an option. But at their age hardly anyone had friends of the opposite gender, so this wasn't usually a problem.

Anders propped his hands on his knees with a knowing look. "Tranquil means you can't do magic anymore. They take a red-hot iron and press it to your forehead, and you can't feel the Fade."

Akarra scoffed. "That isn't true. Mages are always mages."

"It's true," Anders insisted. "You know Alvin, the one who carves the apprentice staves? He's Tranquil."

"He is not. Quit scaring me, Anders."

Anders shrugged, picking a bit of lint from his pants. "Fine. Don't believe me. But have you _ever_ seen Alvin do any magic? Or Vendra?"

"I've seen Vendra do magic. Now I _know_ you're making things up."

"She doesn't do magic, she brews potions. It's the herbs that do that, not her own magic. Miss Wynne says that Vendra's the best potion maker we have because she can't get distracted." He frowned. "I think she might have been saying I get distracted easily."

Akarra hesitated. _Could_ it be true? Anders had yet to lie to her...

She'd been in the tower a month now. Her classes were getting easier, and some of the girls had stopped looking at her like she had three eyes and green skin. A few had even gotten friendly, and she no longer tagged after Anders like a lost puppy. But he continued to check on her, popping into study hall when she was supposed to be reading, or showing up outside her last class and walking her to dinner. Just why he'd chosen to befriend her she couldn't be sure, but she was grateful.

"So anyway, it can't have been as bad as all that, 'cause they would have turned you Tranquil instead of bringing you to the Tower."

Akarra stared at Anders, wondering if she dared tell him what had happened in the market that day.

"Come _on_," Anders wheedled. "It's gotta be good, or you wouldn't be so weirded out."

"You first," she whispered.

Anders shrugged. "I was five. I found this cat, and it was hurt, really bad hurt. Maybe a dog got it, because everyone told me it was going to die. I took it home, sat there petting it... and sort of... _willed _it to get better. And then it did."

"You healed it?"

"Yup. I thought it was just great, but my parents were upset. They tried to hide it and told me not to do it again, but someone saw the cat following me through the village. The templars arrived not long after. They say I'm the youngest ever to be brought here," Anders finished, sounding almost proud. "But I wish they'd let me bring the cat."

Akarra nodded. A cat would be a nice thing to have. She'd had a kitten once, but the servants had complained it was inconvenient, so her mother had gotten rid of it, much as she had Akarra.

"Now you," Anders prompted. Akarra wriggled, wishing he hadn't lived up to his end of the deal so easily. Anders crossed his arms over his knees, raising his brows. "Go on."

Her heart pounded, the memory of her shame bringing the hurt back. But she had to tell him... she'd sort of promised. Swallowing, Akarra began. "Mother took me to the Hightown market..."

_"Akarra!" _

_She waved, bouncing on her toes. Seamus Dumar and a group of other noble children were milling about in the center of the square, organizing a game of some sort while their parents talked and shopped. "Mother, please may I go?"_

_"Hmm? Oh. Yes, but don't tear your dress." Revka turned away, resuming her gossip with the Comtesse._

_"Yes'm." She bobbed a quick curtsy and skipped over to Seamus, who grinned and scurried up to her. _

_"We're playing team-tag. Be on my team?"_

_"Akarra's on _our_ team_," _Flora insisted, hooking her arm through Akarra's. "Boys against girls."_

_Seamus' face fell, but he turned and jogged back to Kelder and Cyril. Flora dragged Akarra off toward Petrice, where the three of them whispered and giggled while the boys began shoving playfully. They got so caught up with giggling that they didn't notice the boys sneaking up on them._

_"You're it!" Cyril cried, slapping Petrice on the back. She rocked forward, wide-eyed from the blow, then spun with a shriek._

_"I'll get you for that!"_

_And they were off._

_The children tore through the square, the girls hiking their skirts, all of them shouting with laughter__ It was a mad, disorganized chase, where the only rule seemed to be not to get caught. _

_Akarra risked a glance over her shoulder as she ran from Seamus, who had the misfortune of being "it". The other boys herded the girls, trying to keep them from scattering, giving Seamus the chance to take the victory back for their team. Her foot caught a loose stone, sending her spinning to the ground with a gasp. Seamus bore down on her before she could rise, snagging her ponytail and continuing to run._

_"You're it!" he bellowed, but forgot to let go._

_Akarra screamed, the pain bringing tears to her eyes. Her eyes clamped shut, and flushes of heat seared around her, the light behind her eyelids burning bright red._

_"Seamus! That HURT!" she cried, opening her eyes at last. What she saw stopped her heart._

_The market had gone lifeless as a painting, every eye trained on Akarra Amell, who sprawled on the ground in a ring of flames that burned without fuel. She was untouched, unhurt by the fire that surrounded her, though she could feel the deadly heat. _

_"She's a mage," someone whispered._

Anders' eyes had gotten big.

Akarra swallowed again, the memory tightening her throat. "After that, the templars showed up, and I went to the chantry. I got sent here."

"Wow..." Anders whistled. "You're an elemental adept!"

"I'm what?"

"A fire mage! Akarra, that's so... excellent!" Anders looked excited.

"What's so great about it?"

"What's so great about it?! You can light things on fire! You'll never be cold, because you can warm up with a touch. You can even cook food just by holding it! I've seen some of the older mages do really neat things with fire... Akarra, this is awesome!"

"I'd rather be a healer," she mumbled. At least that would be useful. Who needed a girl who could light a fire with her fingers? That's what flint was for.

"Oh, you can learn that too," Anders said dismissively. "We all take a couple of specializations. This is so _excellent!_"

Akarra shrugged. If she had a way to lose her magic, she would. Then she could go home, and her mother would love her again.

_Tranquil means you can't do magic anymore..._

Her breath caught. Anders continued to babble, but Akarra barely heard him, her mind too full of what her friend had told her, and what it might mean.

* * *

Long after the eighth bell, Akarra snuck from her room and ghosted down the hall, her feet whispering over the stone. She should have put her shoes on; it would have been louder.

_There!_ She ducked behind a bookshelf, her fingers peeking around the edge as the templar rounded the corner. He walked on past, and she drew heat with her mind, aiming for the hem of his tunic beneath the silver armor.

It was better than she'd hoped for. As easily as breathing, a flame lit the cloth, and Akarra bit her lip in nervous anticipation. The templar yelped, spinning and batting at his rear end. Akarra forced a jeering laugh, though her heart was pounding and her palms sweating. The templar spotted her instantly, his face going red. He strode forward, snatching her wrist and pulling her along. Akarra whined, shoving at his hand, but not trying all that hard to escape... she _wanted _to be taken to the First Enchanter.

Would this be enough? Attacking a templar was bad... wasn't it?

To her disappointment, she was given a week of bread and water for meals and was locked in her room when she wasn't in class. Harsh, but not harsh enough. She spent the week in planning, and when she was free once more she struck again.

Her target this time was Vendra's stillroom, the place where she concocted potions. The Tranquil worked there throughout the day, and her pattern was easy enough to learn. When she'd gone to lunch, Akarra slipped in and set fire to the desk. She stayed just long enough to get caught.

A month of solitude for that stunt.

Akarra despaired. What would it take?

When she came up with her next plan, she was a bit taken aback with how evil it was. Would a good girl have such wicked thoughts? No. If anything, her ability to come up with such nastiness was further proof that she belonged in the tower. But there were no Tranquil children here - so they _must_ have gotten sent home. Akarra imagined her mother's surprise when she showed up at the door, the beautiful sunburst on her forehead. There would be no more classes, no more being alone, no more feeling ashamed for being what she was. It was worth it.

Akarra concentrated, and the new lock on her door heated, reddening to a molten glow. Ice was mind-numbingly difficult but she struggled, and the metal frosted. She repeated this a few times, until a hard smack with a book knocked the now brittle lock from the door. Free now, she scurried down the hall, headed for the great library.

Here was the true wealth of the Circle. Knowledge uncountable filled the shelves, thousands upon thousand of books, all painstakingly copied by hand, passed down through generations. Fragile vellum pressed between wooden boards and bound with sinew and leather.

It would go up in minutes.

Akarra centered herself, well aware of the energy this spell would cost her. She might even die of it - at the least, it was likely that when she woke up, she'd already be Tranquil. Concentrating, she prepared to cast, summoning her link to the Fade.

"Akarra... what are you doing?"

Her heart leapt, and the flames guttered from her mind, quenched in an instant by First Enchanter Irving's voice. She hadn't noticed him reading in the corner of the deserted library, folded into one of the great easy-chairs. He set his tome aside, rising to glide toward her with hands clasped behind his back.

"I'm setting fire to the library," she said in a breathless voice. She felt ill, like she might throw up, but maybe First Enchanter Irving would be so shocked he would have her made Tranquil right away, without her actually having to commit the awful crime.

The First Enchanter's lips pursed, and he nodded. "I shall help you."

"What?"

"Here, let us start small." Irving gestured, and a piece of paper floated from the table by his easy-chair. It hovered in the air before her, curling and dancing, twisting on itself. "Burn it, Akarra. It's not much, but even I cannot destroy all of the books all at once, so we must begin with something small and work our way up. This isn't much - the spell for turning broccoli to chocolate. But it's a good place to begin I think."

"Uh-" There was a spell for that?

"Here, I shall do it." Irving gestured, and the vellum caught, combusting to cinder in seconds. Akarra's heart twisted... what had she just destroyed?

"Another." Irving gestured, and a second paper floated toward them. "This spell is for magical bed-making. Normally, it's taught to fourth-year students, because at that juncture in your education there is less time for paltry things like chores." He sighed, then gestured once more.

"No-" Akarra blurted, but it was too late, the paper crumbling to ash before her eyes. The sick feeling in her stomach increased. What would the fourth-years say when they discovered they could no longer learn to enchant their beds to make themselves?

"This spell," Irving murmured as another paper twirled itself through the air, "is for folding paper."

"What do you mean?" Akarra found herself interested, and Irving raised a brow at her curious tone.

"Oh, nothing much. Paper folding has been an art for centuries. If you know how, you can make animals or flowers out of paper. But no one will miss it-"

"No, I... please, can you show me?" Akarra held her breath. A pleased look filled the First Enchanter's eyes, and he murmured, his hands forming small gestures.

From nooks and crannies in the shelves, drawers and baskets set in desks and tables, sheets of vellum rose and twirled through the air, spinning around them in a chaotic circle. Paper flew, a blizzard in more colors than Akarra had known existed. Irving's eyes closed, his chin lowering to his chest, and the papers began to fold themselves, writhing in the air. She watched, goosebumps rising as the vellum took on life of its own. Excitement flooded her, delighted laughter spilling from her lips as flocks of paper doves took wing, one of them landing on Akarra's shoulder and nuzzling her cheek. A crinkly tabby-cat wound around her legs as a cluster of stiff green frogs hopped across the floor, hiding in the paper garden that sprung up around their feet. Blades of grass and wildflowers sprouted, rustling as they shredded into the proper shape. A brilliant peacock bloomed before her eyes, dozens of papers creasing, all of them twisting and interlocking until the tail plumed in a scalloped, iridescent rainbow. Tiny butterflies rippled in clouds, coming to rest on the shelves, the walls, the rim of Irving's teacup. Pastel wings fanned, so lifelike they took Akarra's breath away.

She spun in a circle, awed by the power that Irving spent on such a casual thing. Never had she imagined that something so beautiful could be created out of thin air. And to think, this very power was within her. _Her_. A scarlet butterfly alighted on her finger.

"You can destroy it with a thought, my dear." Irving's voice was gentle. "I know how much you want to. A thought, and all of this will vanish..." He seemed sad, and the butterfly's wings drifted back and forth. "Let us do it together. On my count - one-"

"No!" Akarra cried, cupping her hands protectively around the butterfly. There was no _way_ she would allow this to be destroyed!

The First Enchanter raised an eyebrow. "I thought you wanted to burn down the library?"

Akarra shook her head, tears springing to her eyes. "I just..." Scalding drops coursed down her cheeks, and the words came out in a wail. "I want to be Tranquil!"

Irving paled, then knelt before her, his hands clasping her arms. "Oh my child... why would you want that?"

"The Tranquil... children... must go... h-home..." Akarra hiccupped, sniffling. "I d-don't see any...of th-them h-here."

"Do you miss your home very much?"

Akarra nodded, dragging the back of her hand across her eyes.

Irving sighed. "I wish I could say that you could visit them, my dear, or that they could come to visit you... but it simply isn't possible."

Akarra shook her head, calming a bit now that the initial outburst had passed. "My mother wouldn't come visit. She didn't want me to be a mage."

"I'm sure she would come if she could," Irving began, but Akarra cut him off.

"No. She hates me now. She doesn't... doesn't want me anym-more because I'm bad. Mages are _bad._ I want to be Tranquil so she'll love me again... please, First Enchanter! I don't want my magic!" Akarra drooped into Irving's arms, leaning her raven head on his shoulder as she sobbed. After a moment, his arms went around her, and Akarra cried her heart out, rocked gently by the elder mage.

"We _never_ make children Tranquil, my dear... that is why you don't see any, not because they've been sent home to their families. But Akarra... your magic is a gift. Not a curse. Please believe that," First Enchanter Irving said, drawing her away from him. "Tranquility is a last resort for mages who cannot tame their gifts. To be Tranquil, you aren't just cut off from the Fade, you are cut off from your emotions. Your feelings. And you cannot dream."

Akarra wet her lips, her small brows creasing as she considered this. "I wouldn't feel anymore?"

Irving nodded, fishing a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping the tears from her cheeks. "The world turns gray for those who are Tranquil. No more sadness, but no happiness, either. No anger, but no laughter. No fear, but no excitement. Every day is the same for them, there is no such thing as art or love or joy. No dancing, no singing, no playing." He tipped her chin up with gentle fingers. "I don't want that for myself. Do you?"

"No..." Akarra mumbled. It sounded like something out of a bad dream.

Irving stood, offering her his hand. "Are you ready for bed?"

She _was_ tired... yawning, she nodded, and slipped her hand into his. The two of them shuffled down the hall, and the First Enchanter knelt once more when they reached her room, locking her young gaze with his old one.

"You are a talented girl, Akarra. You're smart, and pretty, and perfectly deserving of love. If what you say is true and your mother did not want you because of your magic, then she is not worthy of a daughter such as you. You are very special, my dear...I hope you believe me."

He looked so serious and so kind, Akarra lost her fear. He was such a nice man, with a gray beard almost like her Grandfather Fausten. Her heart ached for familial closeness... there was no touching in the tower. No hugging. No parental figures who tucked children in or kissed their foreheads goodnight. The little bit of affection he'd shown her had broken down her walls.

Following her urge, Akarra put her arms around his neck and squeezed, her firm cheek pressed against his wrinkled one, then slipped into her room and shut the door.

The paper butterfly crawled from the hem of her sleeve and flew to her bed, alighting on the pillow, its wings fanning gently. She curled up to sleep a few moments later, watching it until her eyes closed.


	9. Chapter 9: Akarra

**9:27 Dragon, Kinloch Hold**

**_Month of Firstfall_**

**~Akarra~**

Anders spun himself around in his chair, offering her a saucy grin. Keeping her eyes down, Akarra scribed on, her quill never leaving the page but continuing its steady _skritch skritch_ across the vellum. Anders leaned in closer, brown eyes smoldering with mischief. He cleared his throat, and when she still didn't look up he drummed a rhythm on her desk, his fingers skittering across the paper, narrowly missing her dancing quill.

"What, Anders," she murmured, fully aware that she was the only one in the classroom who was even pretending to work. Tiny wads of vellum, moistened with spit and rolled between idle fingers, arranged themselves in a gooey pattern on one wall as four young men contested to see who could launch them the furthest from makeshift tubes. No magic was allowed - they used nothing but their own lungs for this competition. Opposite, a gaggle of young ladies whispered and squealed, tossing their hair and arranging their robes as they judged the spitball event. A few other young men and women sat in hushed, intimate conversation, their fingers laced and faces close. Kinnon and Rella were doing a bit more than talking, though they'd retreated to one corner of the classroom to do it. Judging by the earthy noises that were coming from that corner, Akarra hoped for their sakes that Enchanter Wynne truly_ was_ gone for the rest of the hour. All they needed was a templar to walk through the door. Who in their right mind left teenagers alone in a classroom?

"You're being boring again," Anders chided her, then yanked the vellum out from under her quill when she raised it from the page. She shrieked, but he jumped up on a chair and held it high, grinning like a shadowcat.

"Anders!"

"All work and no play, Akarra," he scolded, then yelped when a tendril of flame licked his fingers. The vellum fluttered back to the desk, and Akarra snatched it up before Anders could ensure its recapture.

"You're the one whose Harrowing is in a month-"

"Exactly! So why in Andraste's name are you studying when we could be doing anything else?" Anders dropped down into his chair again with a hefty sigh. "Face it Akarra. You're old before your time."

Akarra rolled her eyes. "Healing doesn't come as easily to all of us, Anders. Unlike you, I have to work for every bit of ability."

"Why you bother, I'll never know," Anders shook his head. "You can blow things up with your brain. How is that less excellent than closing a gaping wound?"

"Because people _need_ healers," Akarra pointed out with a lopsided smile. "The lowliest cook can set a fire."

"Not with his mind though." Anders stretched, shooting a covert glance at the huddle of girls across the room. "Keili's gotten better looking, don't you think?"

"Maker's sake, Anders. Keili? The virgin? She'll _never_ sleep with you." Akarra tucked the parchment into her shoulderbag, safely away from questing fingers.

"Sounds like a challenge to me..." Anders' eyes gleamed. "But what about you? You've been rather chaste lately. Where's Finn been?"

"Finn and I are on the outs." The words tasted bitter. "Since his Harrowing he's been completely smug - he thinks he's too good for an 'unharrowed apprentice'. Like passing that stupid test has turned him into a full adult, and I'm _beneath_ him now."

"Ass," Anders said simply. "He doesn't deserve you."

Akarra shrugged, not really wanting to linger on it. Relationships came and went in the Tower, and as much as she didn't like to think she was as promiscuous as the rest, she was no chantry maiden.

"So, I think I'll go talk to Keili..." Anders threw her a wicked grin as he stood.

"Unless you plan on raving about the evils of what we are, I doubt she'll be interested," Akarra quipped. "She spends _more_ time in the chapel..."

"A good tumble might be just the thing, then. And you know me, all I want to do is help." Anders considered, then pulled a sheet of creamy vellum from his desk. "Do the thing, will you?"

"Maker, Anders, you _really_ need a new opening line."

"Come _on_, Akarra... no one does it better than you."

Akarra groaned, tipping her head back and shooting Anders a pained glance, but after another sigh she took the vellum and closed her eyes. The paper rolled, creasing and shaping, folding itself to her whim. A bit of color, and the stem of the makeshift rose darkened to a hunter green, the budding petals flooding with crimson.

"Brilliant," Anders breathed as she handed it to him. "One of these days I'll make you show me how to do that."

"Yeah, right. You keep promising to show me the electricity thing, too."

Anders winked at her. "And I will." He slipped the rose into the folds of his robes and sauntered over to Keili, who sat a bit apart from the other girls.

Shaking her head in amusement, Akarra pulled a tome from her bag, determined to have the layout of the human heart committed to memory before the bell rang. She was meeting First Enchanter Irving for lunch, and she wanted to be able to tell him about her progress.

* * *

**_Month of Haring, 19th Day_**

"I can't do it." Akarra giggled, snorting a little at the hilarity of the moment, her head swimming with the effects of the wine. Who'd have thought that Enchanter Wynne kept a still? Trust Anders to find out, and to filch a few bottles. And really, it wasn't half bad. She took another sip, rolling the heavy liquid over her tongue.

"Sure you can," Anders encouraged her, the candlelight flickering over his golden hair. He'd kept from cutting it for nearly a year now, and it brushed his shoulders in soft waves. "Come on. I won't bite."

"This is dumb," Akarra complained, setting her cup down. "I can't kiss you. You're like... my brother."

"I can't show you otherwise." Anders pointed out, his voice thickened with wine. "And why _haven't_ we ever kissed, anyway?"

"Because you're a man-whore," Akarra snickered. "You'll do anything on two legs, and you've filled my ears with tales of your conquests too many..." she hiccuped. "...times."

"Oh. Right. Hey," he protested. "You're not exactly a Revered Mother."

"I never said I was," Akarra agreed. "But I've had, what..." she thought, searching back through her addled memory. "Angelo, then Renold. Then Finn. Three." She held up three unsteady fingers, waving them before Anders' face. "For the tower, that practically _does_ make me a Revered Mother. You... you're becoming a legend. Tell me truly - did you really sleep with Cera, that elven ambassador mage? They say you did, but she was only here for a day - did you?"

Anders grinned. "I'm running out of women, Akarra. I need to get out of here."

"What, so you can get some kind of... rarified... slimy... disease-thing? What're they called, the ones you get from having sex with sailors?"

"I'm... a healer," he pronounced with care, his eyes deadly serious. "Anyone I sleep with leaves healthier than they started."

"Not everything can be cured with magic, Anders," Akarra replied in a sing-song voice, tapping her finger on his nose.

"Everything worth catching can," he cackled. "Come on. You said you wanted to learn. I have to kiss you to show you. One kiss."

"No! Is this how you start all your conversations with women you bed?" Akarra picked up her cup again and drained it, holding it out for more wine. "I'm not drunk enough for this."

"Too drunk and you won't enjoy it," Anders cautioned her, but poured another share of the wine into her glass. "Look, it isn't as if I want to kiss you, either."

"Why? What's wrong with me?" Akarra demanded, forgetting that she'd just told him that he was practically her sibling.

"Nothing. You're gorgeous. You've got the most beautiful black hair, did you know that?"

"Stop it." Akarra plunked the cup down again, then closed her eyes and braced herself, trapping her hands beneath her legs. "Do it. Just... do it."

She heard Anders' chuckle, and then the smell of his skin and gentle pressure as his lips brushed hers. The stupidity of what was happening almost dissolved her into giggles again, but then his tongue glided along the seam of her lips, a tiny, tickling vibration sending a ripple of sensation down her spine.

Akarra jumped back, her eyes flying open. "What-"

"Oh come on, that wasn't a kiss, only the beginning of one," Anders protested. "_That_'s what I'm trying to show you!"

"Do it again," Akarra commanded, some of the fog clearing from her head.

Anders leaned in, one hand rising to tangle itself in her hair. She swatted it away, uninterested in romantic gestures, preoccupied with learning what Anders called his "electricity trick".

Anders' lips were soft, sweeter than she'd imagined - or maybe that was the wine. She found her mouth opened quite naturally under his, another small tingle speeding the way. His hand rose once more, and this time she did nothing to stop it from weaving into her hair. The most delicious feeling shivered through her, the joint connection of his hand and tongue almost more than she could take - it felt more... _alive_ than any kiss she'd ever experienced, and Akarra wondered why she'd never thought of using her powers this way.

Electricity wasn't really her strong point, though; it came much more naturally to Anders.

They broke a moment later, Akarra gasping, Anders laughing at her flushed cheeks. "Now I see why they all fall into your bed," she muttered.

"Blech. Glad that's over," Anders teased her. "Awful, wasn't it? Maker, kissing my _sister_. You're lucky I love you, Akarra, because there's no way I'd do _that_ otherwise."

"It was the worst. I love you too. Now shut up," Akarra commanded him. "Give me your hand."

Twining her fingers with his, Akarra kneaded the flesh, coaxing his fingers backward as she stretched the muscles in a hand massage - something Finn had shown _her_. It was cold in the cellar room, and Akarra urged a bit of heat into his chilled digits, relaxing the muscles further. He sighed, then cocked a brow when lightning sparked between their hands.

"Practicing," Akarra murmured. "It doesn't _just_ have to be with your tongue, right?"

"No, but what's the fun without it?"

Akarra grinned. "So little imagination!"

They grew quiet, finishing the wine as Akarra worked first his left hand, then his right.

"Are you nervous at all?" she murmured. In a few hours it would be morning, and the templars would take her best friend to the Harrowing chamber, and Maker-willing, pass him into full-mage status. No one knew just what happened behind those doors, only that not everyone made it out in their right mind.

"A bit," Anders admitted, the joviality gone from his handsome face. Leaning back against the cellar wall, he fed her a small, quirked smile. "Thanks for meeting me tonight."

Her shoulders lifted for a long moment as she drew breath before they dropped again. "You're my best friend, Anders," she said. "Of course I'm here. Where else would I be?" She sat up on her knees, gesturing. "Come here. I'll rub your shoulders."

Anders maneuvered himself into place, letting his head rock forward as Akarra sent flickerings of heat into muscles gone tense with worry and fear. Touches of her newfound electric ability helped as well, though Anders yelped the first time she did it, cautioning her about too much. "Start small, and work up," he mumbled, and she soon had him purring. "Sweet baby Andraste, woman. Tell me again why Finn left you?"

"Because he's a jackass," Akarra snapped, her thumbs digging a little too deeply into Anders' shoulderblades.

"You should show him what you learned tonight. He'd be putty in your hands."

Akarra's movements slowed. By this time, most of the wine had evaporated from her veins, burned off with the exertion of magic and the tension that came with thinking about Anders' Harrowing. "Do you think?"

"But he's a jackass, right? Why would you want him back?"

"Because he was _my_ jackass."

"Trust me, there's at least twenty others who would adore you, Akarra. More if you count the upper echelon."

"Ew, Anders. That's just _wrong_."

"A beautiful young woman like you? Stranger things have happened."

"There's no way I would ever, _ever_ have a relationship with anyone more than... I don't know. Ten years my senior. That's... just..." Akarra shuddered, thinking of some of the senior enchanters. "They're probably all... wrinkly..."

"True, it would probably be more enjoyable for them than it would be for you."

"Ugh." She finished with a generalized gliding of her hand, then tweaked his shoulders. "Better?"

"Much." Anders sighed, raking a hand back through his hair, his eyes falling to the floor. "Did you ever read Sister Petrine?"

Akarra's brows rose as she eased herself down beside him again. "That's random. Why?"

"I was reading this book she wrote - something about folklore. She's a Chantry scholar. Anyway, it was about the Chasind. Those people... they're free. As free as they can be. They're not ruled by anyone but themselves." He looked up, a fierce light in his brandy eyes. "Don't you ever want to get out of here?"

Akarra swallowed. Anders had grown restive in recent years, rebelling against even the simplest of Kinloch Hold's many rules. Was he actually thinking of trying to escape?

"It's just a book," she hedged. "And they're barbarians... there's a reason they're called Wilders."

Anders nodded, but he didn't look convinced, his eyes falling back to the floor.

They chatted a bit more, lingering on simple things, sharing a few precious memories, taking pleasure in the closeness that comes with long years of friendship grown into adulthood.

A small chime rang - the alarm Akarra had rigged, attaching it to the great clock in the hall. Only an hour remained til the waking bell, and they'd pushed their luck as far as it could plausibly go. Rising from the dirt floor, Akarra offered him a hand up, both of them brushing dust from their robes. She wound her arms around his neck.

"I'll see you tomorrow," she whispered, turning her head to brush his cheek with her lips.

Anders' arms tightened around her as he let go a deep breath. "I promise," he whispered back.

* * *

**_Month of Haring, 20th Day_**

Akarra's knee jiggled beneath the desk, her toes pressed taut against the stiff leather of her boot as she listened to Enchanter Loreah drone on about the many usages of panacea. Potion-making, while important for would-be healers, was something that Akarra continued to struggle with. Anders had been helping her for years...

What was he doing right now? Was he even alive? Had she seen him for the last time?

"Panacea is only one of many herbs that are beneficial, but one must always take side effects into consideration." Enchanter Loreah's voice grew drier by the second, and Akarra resisted the urge to flop forward onto the desk. The class would never end!

Somehow, she made it through the hour, and dashed from the chamber the moment the bell rang. Dodging and weaving through the crowds of students, she raced to the dormitories, wondering if she dared sneak into the boys' side and check Anders' room.

"Sully!" Waving frantically, she caught the eye of her best friend's roommate. The lanky youth waved back, jogging over.

"Hey, Akarra. Seen Anders?"

"No, I was hoping you had," she nibbled at her lip. "Can you check your room? I feel like he ought to be out by now."

"Sure thing. One sec." Sully disappeared down the hall, and Akarra slanted against the wall, clutching her books to her chest. She had only a few moments before her next class, and-

"Akarra?"

Her head swiveled to the side, and she paled at the look on Sully's face, a cold chill spreading over her skin. She swallowed. "What?"

"His stuff's gone. All of it." Sully shook his head, confusion and fear carving lines into his forehead. "You don't think-"

"Maker," Akarra whispered. What could that mean? Why would his things be missing? "I... I don't know, Sully. But... I'll find out." To the void with her classes. She marched back the way she'd come, climbing the stairs one resolute step at a time. Icy dread flooded her bones. As much as she didn't want to admit it, there was only one thing she could think of... if Anders had failed, and they'd... made him Tranquil... they might have cleared out his things. One person could tell her, and she had no intention of waiting to find out with the rest of her classmates.

To the top of the tower she went, ending her climb at the entryway to First Enchanter Irving's office. Pursing her lips, she blew out an anxious breath, seeking to calm her fraying nerves before she lost her thin semblance of control. Palms sweating, she lifted one hand to rap knuckles against Irving's door.

The familiar voice called for her to enter, and she pushed open the door.

"Akarra," Irving said in surprise, rising from his chair. "My dear, aren't you due in elemental studies in a few minutes?"

"What happened to Anders, Irving?" She kept her voice low and calm, but her tone brooked no argument. Even among the senior mages, not many would dare come directly to Irving's office - it wasn't that the First Enchanter was a cruel or disciplinary man, but merely a very busy one. A chain of command existed within the tower for a reason, but Akarra had long ago learned how to cut past all of that.

Since the night in her childhood when he'd caught her trying to burn down Kinloch Hold's extensive library, Irving had taken a special interest in Akarra Amell. Their relationship had blossomed into close friendship, her coming to him with her small triumphs, him taking joy in her advancing studies. They lunched together several times each week, and often sat atop the roof in the evenings, stargazing and chatting, keeping up with each other's lives. Anders joined them on occasion, but the young man had never become what Akarra was - akin to his own flesh and blood. He'd taken the place of the father she'd always longed for, her own having died before she was born. She knew just how much Irving loved her, and she loved him, as well.

It was this love she was counting on now.

Irving frowned, lowering himself to the desk again. "Anders was taken to the Harrowing Chamber at dawn, as all are in their nineteenth year."

"Yes yes. He was. And now his things are gone from his room. What happened to him?" Akarra's fingers kneaded over the tomes she clutched, her shoulders tight as she awaited Irving's answer.

To her fury, her mentor chuckled. "He means a great deal to you, this young man. Tell me, why is it you and Anders have never taken an interest in each other, my dear?"

"Irving!" Akarra cried, infuriated that he would redirect her at a time like this. "Where is he!"

"Such temper! You're normally much more level headed..." He held up his hands, chuckling at the small shriek of exasperation that flew from Akarra's lips. "Your friend is in his new quarters. The _mages_ do not bunk with the apprentices, after all." A twinkle shone in Irving's eye as he reached into his desk, retrieving a creamy sheet of vellum and laying it on the desk before him. Keeping his eyes on the parchment, he reached for the fancy quill on the corner of the desk, penning something in swirling script as he spoke. "Give this to the templar on guard. You'll be shown to his room." His steady fingers creased the vellum, handing it over.

Akarra snatched at the parchment, her heart singing as she spun and dashed back toward the door. Fingers curving around the handle, she halted at the sound of Irving's voice.

"I rather expect you'll be missing the rest of today's classes..."

She turned back, guilt written over her features.

Irving chuckled. "Don't fall behind."

"Thank you," she said fervently, and slipped from the room, feeling light enough to fly.

* * *

The templar on duty hesitated before letting Akarra into the mage quarters, his helmeted face showing nothing but a pair of warm brown eyes through the shadowed visor slit. After an impatient moment, he stepped aside, returning Irving's letter to her waiting fingers. Nodding her thanks, Akarra scurried down the hall, trying not to look like a teenager as she covertly gaped at the senior mage quarters. So much nicer than the apprentice rooms!

Anders' chamber was sparse yet, with bare walls and nothing but the standard bed, desk and chest of drawers. His things had been packed into a few crates which he'd shoved against one wall. Akarra had offered to help him unpack but he'd waved her off.

Now she sprawled on her stomach across Anders' bed, her chin pillowed on folded hands. Anders perched backward on the lone chair, his arms crossed over the back, legs akimbo.

"How does it feel?" Akarra asked.

Anders grinned. "Good! I mean, fine, I guess." He shrugged. "I don't feel any different than I did last night. Well, exhausted - I haven't slept in a day."

"Neither have I," Akarra scoffed. "And I had classes."

Anders chuckled. "Where you sat and stared. I did a bit more than that. You're currently winning on who's less tired."

"So tell me about it." Akarra flipped around, hiking her robes up to allow a cross-legged seat on the quilt. "I want to know."

To her surprise, Anders shook his head, a guarded expression transforming his face. "I can't, love. It's against the rules."

Akarra groaned. "Oh you've got to be _kidding_ me. I was sure you of all people wouldn't care. Come _on... _it isn't like I'm going to tell anyone."

Anders only shook his head, refusing to divulge the details of what had happened in the Harrowing Chamber. After a few more minutes of cajoling, Akarra gave up in a huff, and Anders found something else to tease her about. To their happy surprise, dinner was delivered to Anders' room - a gift from Irving - and they spent another few hours in silliness and friendship.

"You're not going to get all weird now that you're a full mage, are you?" Akarra asked as the hour grew late. Anders had joined her on the bed, the both of them cross-legged, facing each other.

"All weird?" Anders cocked a brow.

"Like Finn."

"Never," Anders promised. "I'll be here for you, I promise..." he hesitated, that guarded look returning to his face. "At least, I'll do everything I can to be here for you. And you study hard." He tapped her nose with his forefinger. "I expect you to waltz out of the Harrowing Chamber, and the two of us to make something of these lives we've been given." He leaned in, his eyes fierce. "I mean it, Akarra. I don't intend to chain myself to some.. neanderthal ideal that the chantry's forcing on us."

"Um... okay," Akarra said, puzzled by the sudden intensity of Anders' words. After another searching look, Anders sat back, offering her an apologetic grin.

"Sorry. Time for big serious conversations another day, no? The point is, I'll do better for you than that walking bookworm... you can't get rid of me that easily. Truly, he doesn't deserve you, Akarra. I wish you'd stop fixating on him."

Akarra scowled. The breakup had just been so... incomplete. She wanted the last word. Finn had dropped her like a hot potato, and her pride smarted over it. Just because she was younger, suddenly she wasn't good enough for him?

"What time is it?" she asked suddenly.

Anders glanced at the wall, where a clock was mounted. This had fascinated Akarra as well - imagine, knowing for yourself what time of day it was. Freedom from the bells... an incredible perk of being an adult. It had been years since she'd known what the hour was without listening for it.

"Not long til the tenth bell," Anders said. "We've been here all day. You should go - it was amazingly excellent of Irving to give you that pass but I doubt it'll protect you if you're here after curfew."

Akarra sighed, and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Anders wrapped her in a quick hug before she scurried out the door, ignoring the templar who stood duty at the entrance to the mage quarters.

On her way back to her room, she passed the library - the sudden thought that Finn was likely within became too tempting to resist. Her steps slowed as plans formed in her mind. She would corner him, say something sassy and cutting, then swoop in and kiss him - the electricity thing should knock him for a loop. Then she would smile and walk away, leaving him with something to think about. He'd regret his cavalier treatment of her.

Smirking, Akarra sauntered into the library, heading for the corner where Finn typically resided with a stack of books. Finding his normal plush chair empty, she frowned, wondering if he'd actually managed to find something else to do tonight. Many an evening the two of them had been escorted from the library at the tenth bell by the templars, fingers entwined. He'd read poetry to her, and shown her fantastic stories of knights and swooning maidens. Til Finn, Akarra had never known just how pleasurable reading could be, and had taken a liking to the printed word for its own sake, and not just as a means of perfecting her craft.

Well, if he wasn't here, he had to be _somewhere,_ and likely was sequestered between the shelves, seeking a specific tome-

"Well. Akarra, isn't it?"

She spun, her heart in her throat. A templar stood behind her, free of his helmet... she frowned. So few of them showed their faces, she had no idea who this man was.

"I'm sorry, you've got me at a disadvantage," she stammered. Templars never spoke to mages - not socially, in any case.

"Bran," he offered, stepping a bit closer. "I... guard the doors to the apprentice quarters." Running a hand over his dark hair, he shrugged. "You wouldn't know me."

She lifted her chin in a slow nod. "Good evening to you, Ser Bran." Moving to step around him, she was halted when he slid in front of her.

"Up late, aren't you?"

"The tenth bell has yet to chime," she said, growing impatient. "I have a few minutes."

"Hmm." Bran pursed his lips, then bowed his head and stepped out of her way. Akarra attempted a smile, but there was more irritation than friendliness in her expression as she pushed past him.

When a cold, shattering blast of draining struck the center of her back, she dropped like a stone.

* * *

Blackness greeted her when she opened her eyes next. Deep murk, and the sound of a key turning in a lock. Her heart sprang to her throat, fingers falling against a stone floor as she struggled to rise from her prone position. Where was she? What had happened?

Shaking her head, she searched her memory for the last few minutes. Everything was hazy. She'd been in the library, looking for Finn, and then...

The sound of flint and steel, the bright flash of sparks drawing her attention to the left side of the room. Everything faded into blackness again as the sparks died, then a second try sounded, and a bright candle flame bloomed.

"You're awake... good." He smiled at her, the expression kind... but somehow, hard and sinister.

_Bran_, she thought. Cold panic overtook her as the pieces fell into place. She'd heard stories, disturbed whispering behind closed doors, but never had she actually thought...

"Now, we can do this easily, or you can fight me. Personally, I like a girl with a bit of... moxy," Bran continued, slow steps bringing him within reach. Akarra scrambled backward, hands and feet digging into the stone as she cornered herself against the granite walls. Her breath shortened to quick pants, panic racing through her limbs as Bran crouched before her, concern furrowing his brow.

"Come now, it doesn't have to be difficult," he crooned. "Really, you won't have much to complain about - not if you cooperate."

"Maker curse you," Akarra rasped, drawing a ragged breath and spitting on his boots. His face darkened with displeasure, and he rose, feet taking a step back in disgust. Launching to her feet, Akarra dashed to the door, but a hand clamped her shoulder, spinning her around before she could twist the key and wrench it open. Bran's steel gauntlet cracked against her cheek, snapping her head to the side, a pained gasp slipping from her lips. Stars swam before her eyes, and Akarra staggered, falling on her elbow against a small table.

"Bitch," Bran hissed, and rough hands fell on her waist. Akarra battled the haze settling over her mind, grasping for a bit of the fire magic that always came so easily to her. This was the first time she'd been hit with a smite, and the powerless feeling of the missing Fade connection nauseated her. She felt empty... her knees wobbled, stomach heaving... she was terribly, terribly afraid.

The templar manhandled her over the table, pushing her chest flat against the wooden surface. Skillful hands rucked her robes up to her waist, lingering on her bare thighs. Akarra writhed, but another crushing blow landed at the base of her skull, knocking her forehead against the harsh wood of the table. Panic clouded her vision, sheer terror stilling her voice. But one weapon remained to her, and if she were to have any hope at all she needed to use it - she screamed, sucking in a gout of air to aid the sound and push it higher, louder. She didn't bother with words, just poured every bit of her flagging energy into volume, the shrill piercing ringing in her ears.

Of course she was silenced, her klaxon hushed as Bran flipped her over and delivered another skull-knocking blow. Akarra felt her lip split, the coppery taste of blood filling her mouth as she moaned into the pain.

"They can't hear you," her attacker sneered. "Try it again, mage. I dare you."

The sound of someone beating on the oaken door made Akarra want to weep.

Bran clapped a hand over her mouth, and Akarra's eyes flashed with hatred over the silvered glove, wishing he were bare-handed so she could bite him.

It did no good - the pounding continued, and then the door crashed open, another templar silhouetted in the dim light of the hallway.

"Release her," a tremulous baritone sounded - it was no voice she knew, but the sound of rescue was sweeter than anything that had ever graced Akarra's ears. She shoved at Bran as her savior strode into the room.

"This is no business of yours," Bran grated.

"She's a mage. You're a templar. And she doesn't seem to be enjoying your attention," the mysterious man said in a hard voice. "Leave, before I have you reported."

"You know, we could share," Bran offered, making one last attempt. "She's a sweet thing, isn't she? I'll let you go first-"

The templar's fist drove across Bran's jaw, sending him staggering. Akarra backed away, her eyes drawn to the door and freedom. She should go, while she had the chance...

Bran growled, drawing himself back up, his body rocking back as he prepared a swing of his own. A sword sliced the air, and Akarra's aggressor reeled, windmilling back from the naked blade.

"You'll pay for this," Bran snarled.

"As I said... _leave_, before I have you reported." The silvered edge touched Bran's neck, and glowering, Bran marched from the room.

Akarra smoothed her robes, still feeling shaky, as her rescuer sheathed his sword. Her eyes flicked to the door, but the arresting voice froze her before she could run.

"Are you alright?"

"No lasting damage," she uttered, attempting a cheerful smile. Her mouth betrayed her, and she hid behind quivering hands as her lips turned down, face crumpling.

"Hey, um, oh..." the templer stammered as Akarra's shoulders rounded, her body folding in on itself as she strained to tamp back the flow of emotion. "Let me... come on. I won't... I won't hurt you." A tentative arm curved around her shoulders, and she allowed herself to be led away and back to her own quarters.

Breathless sobs wracked her frame, her gut twisting with leftover fear and tension. She shook like a leaf, aching, her muscles screamingly tight. The templar barely touched her, guiding her along with gentle touches and murmured words. Akarra's arms hugged her chest, her dark hair swinging forward in an ebony curtain as tears streaked her face.

In what seemed like no time they arrived at her door, and her mysterious savior reached to push it open for her.

"Thank you," she gritted, her voice rough. "Really."

He nodded wordlessly, the lamplight dancing over his helmet. "Goodnight, Akarra."

At these words, she turned back, pinning him with a searching look. "Who are you?"

"Oh," he blurted, quick hands rising to lift the helmet away. Softly waved carmel-colored hair, the shadow of a matching beard covering his chin and upper lip. Brown eyes glinted, warm as a winter's eve by the fire, so serious as he met her gaze. He cleared his throat, and Akarra's eyes were drawn to the mole on his right cheek... it fit him, a small imperfection in an otherwise beautiful face. Such worry - her heart softened to see the concern lining his brow, her fear dissipating in the wake of such a sweet expression.

"Cullen," he said. "I'm Cullen. I just arrived last week - finished my training in Denerim not too long ago."

She nodded, her memory tugging at her. There was something... "Thank you again. Goodnight, Cullen."

He bowed, walking away without another word, and Akarra shut the door firmly, sliding her lock into place and stumbling to her bed, curling herself into the sheets for a soul-cleansing cry.

It wouldn't be until later that she placed him, his warm eyes having caught hers from the confines of the templar's helmet outside the mage quarters. It wouldn't be until a few days after this that she would realize he'd known her name.

All of these things gave Akarra much to think about, but ten days later, on the first day of 9:28 Dragon, Anders escaped Kinloch Hold, turning her world upside down.

* * *

_A/N: Oh goodness, I love this story. I've just... fallen in love with Akarra. Anytime I get under a character's skin, I love them. I can't help it. And I hope you love her too. ;-)  
_

_Thanks go as always to Jaden Anderson, who approved this message... (sorry, political humor. Anyone else glad the election is over?) I mean, who approved this chapter and gave it a thorough beta. :-D _

_I hope you enjoyed, my lovelies! Please leave me your thoughts in a review - I love getting them! :-D Hugs and kisses, ~Eve_


	10. Chapter 10: Akarra

**9:28 Dragon, Kinloch Hold**

**_Month of Wintermarch, 1st Day_**

**~Akarra~**

Akarra was awakened from a dead sleep by a pounding on her door. Her head jerked up from the pillow she'd curled herself around, a sudden indrawn breath forcing her bleary eyes open. Her heart raced, the sudden wake-up startling her body into foggy alertness. How late had she stayed awake? Not very... the tenth bell had chimed shortly after she'd locked her door.

The pounding sounded again, reminding her of the reason she'd been jolted out of her sleep. Drool dampened one corner of her pillow, and she dragged the back of her hand across her mouth, wiping any traces away before she stumbled off the bed and to the door. She'd fallen asleep in her robes, and the fabric was creased and rumpled, her normally sleek hair ratted. One would think that when one lay still for eight hours, one's hair wouldn't tangle into a bird's nest.

The pounding interrupted her muddled thoughts again, and she fumbled the lock into submission before cracking the door open.

A templar in shining armor stood on the other side, the squared helmet concealing his identity. Akarra's stomach wrenched, but when he spoke, his voice wasn't Bran's. She'd become a touch terrified of all of them after what had happened in the library.

"Akarra Amell?"

"Yes?" she managed. Her morning alarm hadn't sounded yet - what time was it?

"Come with me, please." He stepped to the side, clearly expecting her to open the door and follow him through.

Instead, Akarra was tempted to slam the door and throw the bolt. Her heart jumped into a new cadence, mind racing to figure out _why _she might be summoned from her room by a templar. Every scary story she'd heard poured back into her memory - horrific tales of other circles, templars punishing mages for the least of transgressions, mages turned Tranquil for daring to question their guardians... but Kinloch Hold wasn't like that. In all her years, only two had been made Tranquil, both because they'd chosen it voluntarily. Ser Bran wouldn't have been able to accuse her of anything... would he?

"What is this about?" she asked carefully.

"No questions. I am to escort you to First Enchanter Irving's office."

"I... should dress," Akarra hedged. "And comb my hair. Will you allow me a few moments?"

The templar hesitated, then nodded. "Five minutes, and I will remain outside the door. Do not lock it."

Akarra swallowed, but nodded and eased the door quietly shut. Pure adrenaline shot through her, fear trembling her hands as she shrugged out of her day-old robes and clothed herself anew, choosing a set of casual robes with no buttons or clasps - she doubted her fingers could work such intricacies at the moment. She dragged a comb through her dark tresses, then splashed a bit of water over her cheeks, washing away the sleep and drool. What in Andraste's name could they want her for?

It was only a few moments in total before she slipped out of her room, nodding to the templar who waited without.

He nodded back, his right hand lifting to grip the sword hilt at his side. "A warning. I have instructions to restrain you, should you show signs of resistance. It will go better if you do not fight."

"Please, what's going on?" Akarra begged, fear raising her voice a bit higher than she intended. "I won't struggle, I'll go with you, but... can you tell me?"

The templar shook his head. "Walk before me, please. Your hands will stay at your sides, and you will maintain an even pace the entire way. Should you run, I will be forced to take precautions."

"Precautions?" The word slipped out even as Akarra realized what he meant. He would smite her. After experiencing it in the library, it was the last thing she wanted to happen.

"No more questions. Proceed."

Akarra nodded, her palms slick with sweat. Her legs wobbled, balking at her attempts to move them in a rhythm that would appease the templar who stalked behind her. It was a nightmarish journey up the many flights of stairs, and when they finally stood before Irving's door Akarra wanted to sob with relief. If there was something she hated, it was feeling as though she was in the wrong, especially when she'd done nothing but what she was supposed to do.

The templar reached in front of her to knock, then when Knight-Commander Greagoir's voice echoed, his gauntleted hand pushed open the door. He bowed to those within, leaving Akarra to step through before the door fell shut behind her.

"Akarra," Irving's voice was gentle, but tempered with steel. "Please, sit."

"Irving - I mean, First Enchanter, what's going on?" she asked in a whisper, lowering herself to the plush chair she'd perched in so many times. Irving's office had never felt threatening before, but with Knight-Commander Greagoir taking up half the room in his menacing silver armor, she'd never been more afraid. _I did nothing wrong!_ she cried within her own mind, butterflies batting madly at her insides.

"Akarra Amell. Age seventeen, fire affinity, healing and force magic. You have been here for..." Knight-Commander Greagoir consulted the book in his hand. "...eight years. Half your life. You often associate with the mage Anders, is that correct?" the Knight Commander said in a clipped voice.

"Yes, he's been a good friend of mine for years, ever since I came to Kinloch Hold," Akarra said, some of the fear lifting now that she heard Anders' name. It wasn't _her _they wanted - it was Anders. But still, what did Anders have to do with anything?

"You spend a great deal of time with him. What is your association?

"We're friends," Akarra said, mystified at the question. "Anders helps me with my studies sometimes. He's an adept healer."

"The day of Anders' Harrowing, you spent the day in his quarters, did you not?"

Akarra hesitated, her eyes darting to Irving. Nothing had gone between herself and Anders - but even if it had, what business was it of the templars?

"I did give Akarra a pass for the senior mage quarters that day," Irving put in. "Your own guard reported that she was there most of the day, and left close to the tenth bell."

"Answer the question, mage."

Irving's brow flickered in irritation, but he nodded at Akarra to answer.

"I was with him all day," Akarra agreed. "And I left before the tenth bell, as Irv - First Enchanter Irving says."

The Knight-Commander made note of something in his book, then closed it, setting it on Irving's desk. "The mage Anders escaped Kinloch Hold this morning, before dawn. He subdued a templar and destroyed a batch of phylacteries - your own among them."

Akarra's breath caught. Anders had... _oh no_.

"She doesn't know anything, Greagoir," Irving said with a note of pleading. "Observe her face - she's stunned."

"Your own relationship with this girl is well known, Irving," the Knight-Commander snapped. "Stay out of this. Akarra, tell us where he's gone."

"I - I don't know-" Akarra faltered, her fear now so strong it was nauseating. "He said nothing to me, I swear!"

"Then why was your phylactery among those destroyed?" Knight-Commander Greagoir circled the back of her chair, his gaze burning into her skull. Akarra cowered, mentally cursing Anders for dragging her into this. She cudgeled her terrified brain, seeking something Anders had said - _anything_ - anything to appease this templar...

"He said - he said he wasn't going to be chained," Akarra stammered. "He said the chantry had - had neanderthal ideas. He - he said I should... study hard... and that one day we would do something better with our lives." Oh, Maker. How had she not seen it? And he _had_ spoken about the Chasind, about how free they were... said that he was running out of women - she'd taken that as a _jest_, for the love of Andraste!

Knight-Commander Greagoir's lips thinned, cold authority settling into place. Leaning down, he pinned Akarra to the chair with frigid eyes. "Where. Did. He. Go."

"I don't know," Akarra quavered. "Please... I promise, he didn't tell me he planned to run. I had _no_ idea!"

A thin breath hissed from Greagoir's nostrils. Akarra shivered in her chair, certain he would continue to question her, that he wouldn't believe her. It was with some surprise that she heard him say, "You will be escorted to your room, and locked within until Anders' recapture."

"Greagoir-" Irving's voice protested.

"I _must_, Irving," Greagoir cut him off. Suddenly, he didn't sound like a stern inquisitor - merely a tired man who wished he didn't have to do an unpleasant job. "All of the mages whose phylacteries were destroyed must be sequestered until new ones can be created."

"Sequestered," Irving insisted. "The phylacteries will take less than a day to make. Akarra should be free after that-"

"This is not your authority, First Enchanter," Greagoir warned. He pushed open the door, calling to the templar who stood guard without. "Escort this mage back to her quarters, and lock her within. A guard is to be stationed outside her chamber at all times, until I have authorized her release."

"Yes, sir,"

Akarra's limbs seemed to be made of wood. Greagoir gestured impatiently, and the templar entered the room, wrapping one steely claw around her thin upper arm. She whimpered, cringing away as she was hauled to her feet.

"Please, Greagoir-" Irving was begging. Akarra glimpsed the Knight-Commander as the flat of his hand shot out toward her mentor, halting any further speech.

"Once Anders is found, Akarra will be released."

She barely registered the walk back to her room, the way she was pushed through the door, the _snick_ of a lock behind her. Standing frozen within the walls that had become her prison, for the first time, Akarra began to understand just why Anders had wanted to run.

* * *

It was two days before they caught him. In retrospect, Akarra supposed she should have been grateful it wasn't longer.

The only thing that broke the monotony was when a cadre of senior mages, accompanied by Knight-Commander Greagoir himself, showed up at her door a few hours after she'd been locked in. They took her blood for a new phylactery, cutting her palm with a ceremonial knife and pressing a glass phial to the cut. Akarra looked away as the ruby liquid dripped, her stomach turning a bit. She hadn't _actually_ progressed to the point of working with real patients yet; it had all been study so far... how could she have thought she wanted to be a healer, if the sight of blood turned her stomach?

When the door closed again, Akarra cradled her palm, swallowing the bile that rose. It was only blood... _only blood_. Focusing her energy, she concentrated on sending healing energy to the cut. Nothing complex here - no muscles to knit, no bones that needing mending. Skin, superficial capillaries... slowly, the skin closed, becoming a reddened weal, then whitening, then fading to a healthy pink at last. A small smile crept over Akarra's face... one triumph for the day, at least.

Time crawled. She studied, read, paced the floor, gravitated between rage and worry. How could Anders have done this to her? Was he okay? He could be anywhere - on a ship somewhere, traveling away from Ferelden, or tucked into the back of a noblewoman's carriage on his way to Rivain. The ass! He could be lying on the frozen ground, hurt and hungry, blanketed with snow, with more wounds than one could count...

Akarra scowled - Likely, Anders was fine, seated in a tavern with a girl on his knee and a tankard in his fist. When she saw him, she'd sock him for making her worry like this. Her imagination had gotten morbid since she'd begun reading those fantasy stories Finn had hooked her on.

She was curled into her blankets on the afternoon of the second day with a book she'd borrowed from the library when the rasp of the outer lock sounded. Her head snapped up - it wasn't mealtime, her tray wasn't due for a few hours yet. Could that mean...?

She scrambled off the bed, flying to the door and fumbling her side of the locks open.

First Enchanter Irving stood beside a templar, his hand raised to knock when she wrenched the door open. "Ah, Akarra," he said, as calmly as if he'd been about to ask her to lunch. "Your release has been granted. Anders has returned."

"Is-" she blurted, but his eyes flashed warning, and she dropped her head in a nod. "Thank you, First Enchanter."

"Attend your classes, keep to your studies," Irving continued, his voice smooth and even. "Oh, and you might be interested to know - your new phylactery has been completed."

Akarra nodded, her mind racing. "I am glad to hear it, First Enchanter. It was never my intention to escape, so I am happy to hear that the failsafe has been secured."

What a ridiculous dance they were enacting, this coded speech for the benefit of chantry ears. _You cannot escape, so don't follow in Anders' footsteps_, Irving's words said._I won't, _Akarra's words replied.

"If you'll excuse me, Akarra. Shall I see you for our regular appointment later on?" Irving's eyes flashed again, and Akarra nodded, dry-mouthed. She and Irving had no regular appointment.

"Excellent. Oh, but I'm afraid our usual classroom will be unavailable - let us meet in the divination chamber at the seventh bell."

"I'll be there," Akarra promised, thoroughly flummoxed. "Shall I... bring my books, First Enchanter?"

"Yes, the normal ones," he said offhandedly. Without another word, Irving strode from her door, leaving Akarra to stare after him, wondering _what_ was going on.

It wasn't until she shut her door that it occurred to her - Irving was arranging for her to meet with Anders.

* * *

The seventh bell chimed as she hurried up to the divination chamber with a few random books in her arms - how was she to know what Irving was supposed to be teaching her? - and nodded hello to the templar guard who stood without.

"Uh - Akarra?"

She slowed, glancing back with furrowed brows... she knew that voice. "Cullen?"

The helmet dipped in shy agreement. His voice was muffled by the steel, but it didn't hide the quaver. "How are you?"

"I'm well, thank you. Thanks to you," Akarra said. Nibbling her lip, she cast for something else to say. It wasn't often to spoke to templars. "How's... guard duty?"

"Boring," Cullen offered with a bit of a chuckle. "The divination chamber isn't much used. First Enchanter Irving's already in there, though... I'll make sure your studies are undisturbed."

"I thank you," Akarra said, then gave him a tight smile as she murmured "Good evening, ser templar," and scurried through the door.

Irving was within, and embraced her warmly after the door had fallen shut. "What I am about to show you must remain a secret," he cautioned her, and she set her books down, fascinated that Kinloch Hold might have secrets the templars knew nothing about. Who else would Irving speak of keeping things from?

Irving moved to the far wall, his hands clasped before his chest, his soft murmur muted by the chamber's heavy velvet curtains. For the first time, Akarra really looked around... she'd had little call to be in the divination chamber before tonight. To promote clarity of thought, it was sparse, the stone walls draped with blood-red curtains. A low table sat in the center of the room; low enough that one would have to kneel at it. A few cushions sat in the corner. _Why aren't things dusty, I wonder..._ but it was probably magic that kept them in good repair. Or perhaps the Tranquil dusted when they got bored.

Magic felt heightened in this room... Akarra's senses sang, power crackling through her blood. It was almost... like the room itself was _charged_. Was such a thing possible?

Suddenly, Irving's hands flew apart, and the curtain melted away, revealing a murky tunnel. "It leads to the cells," Irving murmured. "Stay here, Akarra - I shall return shortly. If I do not - close the passage, and return to your room." With this bit of frightening instruction, he hurried into the tunnel, a golden glow lighting his upraised fingertips.

Akarra glanced back at the door, worried that Cullen might have felt the sudden power surge... but then, even if he had, Irving was supposed to be teaching her something, was he not? Would it be stranger if there were _no_ magic performed within the room? _The room is charged,_ she realized suddenly. _It throws off the feel!_ The brilliance of whoever had planned for this room scared her a little.

Twisting a lock of hair around her fingers, she stared down the tunnel, wondering, waiting, worrying. Minutes passed before she heard the faint patter of booted feet, and then -

"Come," Irving whispered. "There isn't much time."

Wordlessly, Akarra hurried after him, summoning her own light to hover before her, a wisp of bright flame that danced near the ceiling, whirling to its own joyous rhythm. The rough floor sloped downward in a tight spiral, and Akarra trailed one hand along the wall to help her balance.

"Irving,"she hissed. "How many such tunnels exist in Kinloch Hold?"

Her mentor did not answer, merely shook his head and continued forward. Akarra's lips pursed... many were the secrets she would never know. _Just as well_, she thought.

They passed out of the tunnel after only a few more moments, coming out into the dungeons. If what Akarra had heard was right, they were actually below the lake, now, and from the spreading sprawl of the cells before her, she had to assume it was true. Maker's sake, how many mages did they expect to keep down here?

"The guard won't be out long," Irving murmured. "I hit him with a bit of a sleep spell. It wouldn't have worked, but he was already half asleep anyway. They've gotten too trusting down here."

"Akarra," she heard.

"Anders!" she gasped, and launched herself toward the sound. Through a wooden door slatted with a small window, she saw him - looking hale and well-rested, the bastard.

Tamping back her annoyance, she slipped her fingers through the bars to touch his face. "Anders, what were you thinking?" she whispered. "And now you're in _here_."

"For a month," Anders agreed with a shrug. He reached up to grip her hand. "It was worth it!"

She sighed, her eyes growing stern at the fierce glow that lit his eyes. "Anders-"

"Glorious. Simply wonderful. It _snowed_, Akarra!" His eyes danced, amber flecks lighting the brandy in the wake of her fire-light. "It's been fourteen years since I saw snow! And the woods... they smelled like... things growing... and! There was a winter celebration going on in Redcliffe-"

"You made it all the way to Redcliffe?" she said, incredulous. "That's leagues away!"

"Hitched a ride with a caravan," Anders shrugged. "The horses walked all night, and in the morning I was there."

"Well, it was all just such a jolly adventure, wasn't it," Akarra hissed, growing angry. "Do you know what they did to_ me_, while you were off on a lark? And why did you have to destroy my phylactery!"

"Oh come on, Akarra, don't be a stick in the mud," Anders scoffed. "If they think they can get me down with a little month of solitude-"

"Akarra," Irving said warningly.

"I've got to go, Anders. I'll see you soon," Akarra promised, giving his hand one last squeeze. "And when I do, I'm hitting you - really hard."

"You hit like a girl," her best friend mocked as she darted away. Anders' laughter followed her back up the tunnel.

"I doubt I can bring you here again, my dear," Irving told her when they'd returned to the divination chamber. "But I knew how worried you would be for him, and I wanted you to see just how fine he really is."

"Thank you, Irving, truly..." she reached out to take Irving's hand, then hugged him, brushing a kiss on his cheek. "You spoil me."

Irving chuckled. "A pleasure I would risk much more than this for. But... Akarra... Anders cannot do this again." His eyes were steady, serious as they locked with hers. "If you have any influence at all with him, _tell_ him he cannot run. A month may not seem like much, but for a secondary offender, the punishment is much worse."

"Do they..." Akarra whispered, but Irving shook his head.

"No. The Rite of Tranquility is not a punishment for escapees... only for those who cannot control their magic," Irving reassured her. "But... he seemed rather..."

"Arrogant?" Akarra suggested, that annoyed note creeping back into her voice. "Like he couldn't give two bits for the rules? Like he barely realized what havoc he's wreaked?"

Irving chuckled. "He reminds me of me."

"Well, you turned out alright, I suppose, so I guess there's hope for Anders," Akarra teased.

* * *

The month passed. Classes went on, and Akarra rejoined them as if nothing had happened, as if Anders were not locked in a cell below Lake Calenhad. Her friends questioned her about her disappearance, and she told them what had happened, garnering sympathy support from the girls and, to her surprise, a few exclamations of unfairness from the boys. One or two asked shyly about Finn, who remained a stupid pain in the ass, so Akarra finally burned the poems he'd written her in effigy and washed her hands of him. There was plenty of male attention to be had, clearly - why worry herself over someone who couldn't see what was right in front of them?

She took to studying most evenings with one or more friends, though she remained wary of walking alone through the tower, and managed to glue herself to someone's side whenever the time came to move from one place to another. One young man she'd never really spoken to before offered to walk her back to her room after one social evening, and she accepted. Jowan seemed nice... a bit ordinary, but nice.

Though he _did_ take offense when she refused him a goodnight kiss outside her door.

Akarra sighed, watching as Jowan stalked off, red-faced. He'd told her she was nothing but a flirt. Was she using him? Had she led him on? Not _exactly_, but...

She was about to lock herself into her room for the night when a familiar voice called from down the hall. "Miss Akarra... fancy meeting you here."

Akarra turned back from her door, a puzzled smile stretched over her face. "Ser Cullen. No helmet?"

Cullen shrugged. "It got hot." A small smile quirked the corners of his mouth, his eyes gleaming with warmth. That caramel-colored hair shone, wavy in the lamplight - if he were to let it grow out, Akarra imagined it would curl.

"Are you strictly... _allowed_ to go without one?" Her eyebrow rose, and Akarra realized with a touch of panic that she'd sounded almost like she was _flirting_ with him. _He's a templar,_ she admonished herself.

"Well, not really," Cullen admitted. "Are you going to turn me in?"

She chuckled. "No. I don't suppose so."

They stood silent for a moment, Akarra's hand on her door, then Cullen cleared his throat. "So... going to bed?"

"I have a bit more studying to do," she said. "But then, yes."

"I... had an offer for you." One hand rose to touch the back of his neck, then fell again, his fingers working against the palm of his hand. "I know you like to study late, sometimes, and I wanted to offer to escort you back to your chambers each night. When you've finished."

Akarra eyed him, her brows lowering in suspicion. "Don't you have duties?"

"Actually, I've just been moved to the midnight shift... so I'll be asleep most of the day, and then waking up not long before you'd be going to bed. It would be no trouble... I just thought you might still be nervous, after..." Cullen trailed off, then studied the floor.

Akarra hesitated. He was a _templar!_ ...but she felt no innate distrust, no warning bells, nothing that twisted her stomach. Nothing making her want to refuse. Nothing but... Sweet Maker. _Attraction_.

_No_, she thought. It was a symptom. She'd been stressed - she'd been in trouble - he'd come to her rescue. Likely, he was a complete idiot, or told horrible jokes, or made off-color remarks... She'd be smarter to refuse him, to tell him she was fine on her own and shut the door in his handsome face. Mages and templars didn't... couldn't..._shouldn't..._

"I... would appreciate that - a lot," Akarra admitted, the words tumbling out before she could think too much harder on them. Cullen's eyes lifted, locking with hers and fluttering her heart. Such a rich brown... an involuntary shiver coursed down her spine, and she startled, realizing she was staring. "It's been nervy business." She gave a short laugh, irked that her stomach filled with butterflies and tingles raced over her skin.

"Then... tomorrow?" Maker damn him, he took a step closer. "Shall I meet you in the library?"

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

"Tomorrow, then," he said softly, then touched one hand to his heart, giving a courtly nod. "Goodnight, Akarra."

Her name was a caress on his lips... full, soft looking lips...

"Goodnight, Ser Cullen," she returned, dropping a small curtsey. It seemed the right thing to do - as though they were not protector and protected, templar and mage, gaoler and prisoner... but two of the gently-born, bidding each other good evening after some fine social event. Cullen would have been at home in the finest salons of Kirkwall... this she was certain of.

He left then, and Akarra stared after him, only stepping through her door after he'd rounded the corner.

* * *

_A/N: Thanks go to my amazing beta, Jaden Anderson! Hugs to you, reader! Hope you are enjoying - please do leave me a review!  
_

* * *

_A/N the second:_ **This story is officially being put on hiatus.** _I *will* finish it - there are big plans for Alistair and Akarra. But for now, having multiple stories at the same time doesn't work for me - I get too distracted, and I fall out of all stories and can't tell them. My Lyra Cousland universe needs completion, so for now, I am leaving the Flame and Blade world on the shelf. It's my goal to pick this up again within a year.  
_

_"A year!?" you exclaim in horror, and I say,__"My darling, I have so much story planned for Lyra Cousland, I *need* a year to get through it!"_

_Thank you so much for reading. I've *loved* writing this, and I can't wait to be able to devote the attention to it that it deserves once more! :-D If you've enjoyed, I hope you'll read my other works as well. Maker's Blessing!_


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